IRLF 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

CERF  LIBRARY 

PRESENTED  BY 

REBECCA  CERF  *O2 

IN  THE  NAMES  OF 

CHARLOTTE  CERF  '95 

MARCEL  E.  CERF  '97 

BARRY  CERF  '02 


1— Oregon,  1868. 
« -London,  1870. 


3— Cuba,  1876. 

4— San  Francisco,  1887. 


3  — Louisville,  Ky.,  1897. 
«— In  the  Sierras,  1882. 


The     Complete 


POETICAL     WORttS 


or 


Joaquin 


THe    Hight; 


Revised     Edition 


(With     Illustrations) 


SAN     FRANCISCO 
THE     WHITAHER     CgL     RAY     COMPANY 

(Incorporated) 

1904 


Copyright,  1897 

by 
THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY  CO. 

Copyright,  1902 

by 
THE  WHITAKER  &  RAY  CO. 


All  Rights  Reserved 


vioi 


TO 

COLLIS   P.    HUNTINGTON, 

WHO  WAS  FIRST  TO  LEAD  THE  STEEL-SHOD  CAVALRY  OF  CON 
QUEST  THROUGH  THE  SlERRAS  TO  THE  SEA  OF  SEAS,  AND 
WHO  HAS  DONE  THE  .GREATER  WEST  AND  SOUTH  MORE  EN 
DURING  GOOD  THAN  ANY  OTHER  LIVING  MAN,  I  DKDICATK 
THIS  FINAL  REVISION  OF  MY  COMPLETE  POEMS. 

MILLER. 


THE  RIGHTS,  CALIFORNIA, 
1897. 


18567324 


PKEFACE. 

IN  LOOKING  OVER  MY  NOTES  at  the  end  of  this  second  edition,  wherein  I  have  tried 
to  answer  and  even  anticipate  the  eager  questions  of  young  poets,  I  find  I  may  have 
said  too  much ;  given  too  much  encouragement,  too  little  caution. 

Let  me  qualify  all  I  have  set  down  in  this  book,  by  saying  bluntly,  that  the 
poet's  trade  is  the  hardest  trade  of  all  trades  in  the  world  ;  his  compensation  is  the 
poorest ;  his  triumphs  the  fewest ;  not  one  in  ten  thousand  can  earn  his  bread  at  it. 

Sir  Walter  Besant  is  being  laughed  at  for  having  advised  that  a  man  should 
secure  a  competence  before  writing  books.  But  Sir  Walter  was  right.  And  the 
novelist,  as  a  rule,  receives  fifty  dollars  to  the  poet's  one. 

Another  thing  to  be  taken  into  account  before  venturing  up  the  stormy  steeps  of 
song,  poets,  like  priests  or  preachers,  are  not  in  the  line  of  preferment,  either  at  the 
polls  or  at  the  White  House. 

Suppose  that  James  Whitcomb  Riley  should  ask  to  be  Governor,  or  I  to  be  sent 
to  the  beautiful  land  of  the  Rising  Sun !  See?  Yet  we  have  managed  our  affairs 
fairly  well,  made  fortune  and  fair  name  out  of  nothing, — have  practically  made  bricks 
without  straw.  Yet,  while  there  is  no  more  danger  of  our  asking  such  preferment 
than  there  is  of  our  receiving  it,  you  see  clearly  that  the  poet  must  stand  alone. 

Again,  the  poet  is,  must  be,  as  sensitive  as  a  child,  and  his  work  wears  and  wears 
till  his  nerves  are  so  threadbare  that  he  dares  not  take  up  a  newspaper  lest  he  may 
see  something  ugly. 

Let  me  say  again,  frankly,  Don't  try  to  be  a  poet  if  you  can  possibly  help  it. 
But  if  you  must,  you  must ;  and  there  will  always  be  plenty  who  must.  My  Notes 
are  for  those  who  must.  But  better  be  a  first-rate  plowman  than  a  second-rate  poet, 
so  far  as  fortune,  health,  and  content  are  concerned.  A  Burns,  of  course,  can  be 
first  at  both . 

Born  a  rover  and  a  lover,  I  have  wandered  farther,  perhaps,  than  any  man  living, 
for  my  poetry  opened  all  doors  and  made  travel  a  delight.  Then  I  was  paid  im 
mensely  for  my  prose.  But  if  I  had  depended  on  poetry,  I  should  have  stayed  at 
home,  and  half  starved.  Take  care  ! 

I  traveled  so  much  all  my  life  till  late  years,  that  I  had  to  hastily  feed  my  corn 
out,  weed  or  flower,  green  or  ripe  corn,  from  the  four  quarters  of  the  world,  as  I  ran. 
Hence  the  need  of  this  revision.  And  yet,  even  now,  after  all  my  cutting  and  care, 
I  am  far  from  satisfied,  and  can  commend  to  my  lovers  only  the  few  last  poems  in 
the  book.  True,  the  earlier  ones  have  color  and  clime,  and  perfume  of  wood  or  waste, 
and  I  am  not  ungrateful  for  the  triends  they  brought  me,  but  I  fear  they  fall  short 
of  the  large  eternal  lesson  which  the  seer  is  born  to  teach — the  vision  of  worlds 
beyond.  I  have  tried  to  mend  this  fault  in  my  later  work ;  to  give  my  new  poems 
not  only  body,  but  soul. 

The  purpose  here,  outside  of  revising  entirely  and  gathering  into  this  book  such 

v 


VI  PREFACE. 


poems  as  are  to  be  preserved,  is  to  blaze  some  trees  along  the  trail ;  a  note  of  warn 
ing  here,  a  camp-fire  there,  the  experience  of  a  pioneer ;  so  that  those  who  come 
after  may  not  falter  or  go  astray  in  the  wilderness  that  darkens  along  the  foothills 
of  Olympus.  George  Sand  said  all  Americans  are  poets.  Certainly  all  American 
writers  are  poets,  or,  as  a  rule,  begin  as  such.  True,  many  of  our  great  lawyers 
and  jurists  began  by  writing  poetry,  like  Blackstone.  Perhaps  our  greatest  poets  at 
heart  never  took  the  world  into  confidence  at  all  in  the  maturity  of  power,  but  kept 
a  cold  and  severe  visage  for  all  men,  and  went  to  their  graves  as  practical  merchants, 
lawyers,  doctors,  and  so  on,  with  only  one  little  corner  of  the  heart  for  flowers  and 
a  bird  all  their  own.  And  what  pleasure  to  write  for  such  readers  ! 

A  great  land  without  a  great  literature,  were  such  a  thing  possible,  must  be  to 
the  end  worse  than  spouseless.  Jerusalem  was  ever  but  a  small  place.  You  can 
cover  her  on  the  map  of  the  world  with  a  pin's  head,  yet  is  she  more  than  all  the 
Babylons  that  have  been.  She  loved,  and  devoutly  loved,  the  sublime  and  the  beau 
tiful.  From  this  love  her  poets  were  born.  The  cedars  of  Lebanon,  the  lilies-of-the- 
valley,  these  were  the  first  letters  of  their  alphabet.  And  as  there  cannot  be  a  great 
land  on  the  page  of  history  without  first  a  great  literature,  so  there  cannot  be  a  great 
literature  without  first  a  deep,  broad,  devout,  and  loving  religion. 

The  great  poet  of  this  great  land  of  ours,  these  westmost  mountains  and  the  ulti 
mate  sea  bank,  so  like  the  olive-set  Syrian  hills,  will  come  when  we,  too,  have 
learned  to  love,  and  religiously  love,  the  sublime  and  the  beautiful. 

Why  not  permit  the  coming  poet  to  take  up  his  work  in  the  morning  of  life, 
where  it  is  now  laid  down  in  the  twilight  of  one  who  is  going  away? 

To  this  end  let  us  divest  the  prophets  of  all  that  mystery  and  special  evil  and 
special  good  with  which  ignorance  and  superstition  have  garmented  them.  They 
were  ever  plain  men.  They  were  ever  human  ;  and  the  more  human,  the  broader, 
richer,  deeper,  their  divine  voices. 

Is  there  such  a  thing  as  genius,  inspiration?  I  think  there  is  no  such  thing. 
Rather  let  us  call  it  a  devout  and  all-pervading  love  of  the  sublime,  the  beautiful, 
and  the  good  ;  the  never-questioning  conviction  that  there  is  nothing  in  this  world 
that  is  not  beautiful  or  trying  to  be  beautiful.  "And  God  saw  everything  that  he 
had  made,  and,  behold,  it  was  very  good." 

Genius  is  love  that  is  born  of  this  truth,  leading  ever  by  plain  and  simple  ways, 
and  true  toil  and  care,  as  all  nature  toils  and  cares,  as  God  toils  and  cares ;  that  is 
all.  I  write  this  down  for  those  who  may  come  after.  We  shall  have  higher  results 
from  the  plain,  sweet  truth. 

And  when  your  great  poet  comes,  as  he  surely  will,  do  not  mock  because  he  goes 
apart  to  meditate.  Ever  from  the  first  the  prophets  went  up  into  the  mountains  to 
pray.  A  poet  need  not  be  "eccentric  "  if  he  turn  aside  from  getting  and  getting.  In 
truth,  he  would  be  no  real  poet  if  he  did  not.  A  good  poet  need  not  be  a  bad  man. 
He  may  not  be  a  better  man  than  yourself,  but  he  is  not  necessarily  worse  for  being 
a  poet.  Nor  is  individuality  eccentricity.  I  repeat,  he  is  merely  a  plain,  sincere 
human  being  in  love  with  the  beautiful  world  "and  all  that  is  His." 

Byron,  in  a  letter  to  Moore,  says,  "I  read  Spenser  half  the  time,  as  I  write 
Childe  Harold,  in  order  to  keep  the  measure  and  melody  in  my  brain."  Burns  says, 
"I  keep  as  many  as  half  a  dozen  poems  maturing  in  my  mind  at  the  same  time,  and 


PREFACE.  Vll 


write  them  down  when  matured  and  I  find  time."  These  and  like  little  side-lights 
from  other  great  poets  have  done  me  so  much  good  that  I  decided  to  tell  by  way  of 
foot-notes  so  much  of  my  own  methods  of  work  as  may  possibly  light  the  path  of 
some  discouraged  Keats  of  coming  days.  For  the  greater  the  poet,  the  greater  his 
sensibility,  and  the  greater  the  sensibility,  the  greater  his  sufferings  in  the  somber 
foothill  forests  of  Parnassus. 

Also,  for  the  help  and  good  of  the  poets  who  may  take  up  my  work  where  I  lay  it 
down,  divested  of  all  folly  and  falsehood  with  which  it  has  been  so  cruelly  garmented 
from  the  first,  I  have  written  the  story,  source,  purpose  of  my  poems,  so  far  as  may 
be  of  use  and  interest.  The  photographs  are  put  in  to  show  that,  whatever  there 
may  be  in  eccentricity  of  dress  and  manner,  I  dressed  and  bore  myself  as  others,  and 
kept  quietly  and  plainly  along  about  my  work  like  other  men  mainly. 

The  first  thing  of  mine  in  print  was  the  valedictory  class  poem,  Columbia  College, 
Eugene,  Oregon,  1859.  Oregon,  settled  by  missionaries,  was  a  great  place  for  schools 
from  the  first.  At  this  date,  Columbia  College,  the  germ  of  the  University,  had 
many  students  from  California,  and  was  famous  as  an  educational  center.  Divest 
the  mind  at  once  of  the  idea  that  the  schools  of  Oregon  were  in  the  least  inferior  to 
the  best  in  the  world.  I  have  never  since  found  such  determined  students  and  om 
nivorous  readers.  We  had  all  the  books  and  none  of  the  follies  of  great  centers. 

I  had  been  writing,  or  trying  to  write,  since  a  lad.  My  two  brothers  and  my 
sister  were  at  my  side,  our  home  with  our  parents,  and  we  lived  entirely  to  ourselves. 
We  were  all  school  teachers  when  not  at  college.  In  1861  my  elder  brother  and  I 
were  admitted  to  practice  law,  under  George  H.  Williams,  afterwards  Attorney- 
General  under  President  Grant.  Brother  went  at  once  to  the  war,  I  to  the  gold 
mines. 

My  first  act  there  came  near  costing  my  life,  and  cost  me,  through  snow-blind 
ness,  the  best  use  of  my  eyes  from  that  time  forth.  The  agony  of  snow-blindness 
is  unutterable ;  the  hurt  irreparable.  In  those  days  men  never  murmured  nor  ad 
mitted  themselves  put  at  disadvantage.  I  gave  up  the  law  for  the  time  and  laid 
hand  to  other  things ;  but  here  is  a  paragraph  from  the  February  (1897)  Oregon 
Teacher,  telling  how  this  calamity  came  about :  — 

"The  first  man  I  met  among  the  fevered  crowd  was  Oregon's  poet,  my  old 
schoolmate,  Joaquin  Miller.  His  blue  eyes  sparkled  with  kindly  greeting,  and  as 
I  took  his  hand  I  knew  by  its  quickening  pulse  and  tightened  clasp  that  he,  too, 
was  sharing  in  the  excitement  of  the  gold-hunter.  He  was  then  in  the  first  flush  of 
manhood,  with  buoyant  spirits,  untiring  energy,  and  among  a  race  of  hardy  pio 
neers,  the  bravest  of  the  brave.  He  possessed  more  than  ordinary  talent,  and 
looked  forward  with  hope  to  the  battle  of  life,  expecting  to  reap  his  share  of  its  hon 
ors  and  rewards.  For  years  he  was  foremost  in  every  desperate  enterprise,  —  crossing 
snow-capped  mountains,  swollen  rivers,  and  facing  hostile  Indians.  When  snow 
fell  fifteen  feet  on  Florence  Mountain,  and  hundreds  were  penned  in  camp  without 
a  word  from  wives,  children,  and  loved  ones  at  home,  he  said,  *  Boys,  I  will  bring 
your  letters  from  Lewiston.'  Afoot  and  alone,  without  a  trail,  he  crossed  the  moun 
tain  tops,  the  dangerous  streams,  the  wintry  desert  of  Camas  Prairie,  fighting  back 
the  hungry  mountain  wolves,  and  returned  bending  beneath  his  load  of  loving  mes 
sages  from  home.  One  day  he  was  found,  in  defense  of  the  weak,  facing  the  pistol 


PREFACE. 


or  bowie-knife  of  the  desperado ;  and  the  next  day  he  was  washing  the  clothes  and 
smoothing  the  pillow  of  a  sick  comrade.  We  all  loved  him,  but  we  were  not  men 
who  wrote  for  the  newspaper  or  magazine,  and  his  acts  of  heroism  and  kindness 
were  unchronicled,  save  in  the  hearts  of  those  who  knew  him  in  those  times  and 
under  those  trying  circumstances." 

In  the  heart  of  the  then  unknown  and  unnamed  Idaho  (Ida/i-ho)  and  Montana, 
gold-dust  was  as  wheat  in  harvest-time.  I  and  another,  born  to  the  saddle,  formed 
an  express  line,  and  carried  letters  in  from  the  Oregon  River  and  gold-dust  out,— gold- 
dust  by  the  horse-load  after  horse-load,  till  we  earned  all  the  gold  we  wanted.  Such 
rides !  and  each  alone,  Indians  holding  the  plunging  horses  ready  for  us  at  relays. 
I  had  lived  with,  and  knew,  trusted,  the  red  men,  and  was  never  betrayed.  Those 
matchless  night-rides  under  the  stars,  dashing  into  the  Orient  doors  of  dawn  before 
me  as  the  sun  burst  through  the  shining  mountain  pass,— this  brought  my  love  of 
song  to  the  surface.  And  now,  having  earned  fortune,  I  traveled  Mexico,  South 
America,  I  had  resolved  as  I  rode  to  set  these  unwritten  lands  with  the  banner  of 
song. 

I  wrote  much  as  I  traveled,  but  never  kept  my  verses,  once  published.  I  thought, 
and  still  hold,  that,  under  right  conditions,  and  among  a  right  people, — and  these 
mighty  American  people  are  perhaps  more  nearly  right  than  any  other  that  have 
yet  been,— anything  in  literature  that  is  worth  preserving  will  preserve  itself.  As 
none  of  my  verses,  with  this  following  exception,  have  come  down  on  the  river  of 
Time,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  nothing  of  all  I  wrote  could  serve  any  purpose  except  to  feed 
foolish  curiosity.  I  give  the  following  place,  written  years  after  the  college  valedic 
tory,  not  only  because  it  is  right  in  spirit,  but  because  it  shows  how  old,  how  very 
old,  I  was  as  a  boy,  and  how  sad  at  heart  over  the  cruelties  of  man  to  man.  This  was 
my  first  poem  printed  after  the  valedictory,  about  1866,  and  has  been  drifting  around 
ever  since. 


IS  IT  WORTH  WHILE? 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jostle  a  brother 

Bearing  his  load  on  the  rough  road  of  life? 

Is  it  worth  while  that  we  jeer  at  each  other 

In  blackness  of  heart?— that  we  war  to  the  knife? 
God  pity  us  all  in  our  pitiful  strife. 

God  pity  us  all  as  we  jostle  each  other ; 

God  pardon  us  all  for  the  triumphs  we  feel 

When  a  fellow  goes  down ;  poor,  heart-broken  brother, 
Pierced  to  the  heart ;  words  are  keener  than  steel, 
And  mightier  far  for  woe  or  for  weal. 

Were  it  not  well  in  this  brief  little  journey, 

On  over  the  isthmus,  down  into  the  tide, 
That  we  give  him  a  fish  instead  of  a  serpent, 


PREFACE.  IX 


Ere  folding  the  hands  to  be  and  abide 
For  ever  and  aye  in  dust  at  his  side? 

Look  at  the  roses  saluting  each  other ; 

Look  at  the  herds  all  at  peace  on  the  plain — 

Man,  and  man  only,  makes  war  on  his  brother, 
And  dotes  in  his  heart  on  his  peril  and  pain  — 
Shamed  by  the  brutes  that  go  down  on  the  plain. 


Why  should  we  envy  a  moment  of  pleasure 

Some  poor  fellow-mortal  has  wrung  from  it  all? 

Oh !  could  you  look  into  his  life's  broken  measure  — 
Look  at  the  dregs — at  the  wormwood  and  gall  — 
Look  at  his  heart  hung  with  crape  like  a  pall — 

Look  at  the  skeletons  down  by  his  hearthstone — 
Look  at  his  cares  in  their  merciless  sway, — 

I  know  you  would  go  and  say  tenderly,  lowly, 
Brother, — my  brother,  for  aye  and  a  day, — 
Lo !  Lethe  is  washing  the  blackness  away. 


Home  again  in  Oregon,  I  had  a  little  newspaper  in  the  interest  of  Peace,  my 
Quaker  father's  creed,  and  opposing  the  invasion  of  States,  the  paper  was  sup 
pressed  for  alleged  treason.  Poor  once  more,  broken  in  heart  and  health,  the  gold 
mines  again;  then  a  campaign  against  an  insurrection  of  savages;  then  elected 
Judge ;  and  once  more  my  face  to  books,  night  and  day,  as  at  school. 

Had  I  melted  into  my  surroundings,  instead  of  reading  and  writing  continually, 
life  had  not  been  so  dismal ;  but  I  lived  among  the  stars,  an  abstemious  ghost. 
Then  "Specimens,"  a  thin  book  of  verse,  and  some  laughed,  and  political  and 
personal  foes  all  up  and  down  the  land  derided.  This  made  me  more  determined, 
and  the  next  year  "  Joaquin  et  al.,"  a  book  of  124  pages,  resulted.  Bret  Harte,  of 
the  Overland,  behaved  bravely ;  but,  as  a  rule, ' '  Can  there  any  good  thing  come  out  of 
Nazareth?" 

The  first  little  book  has  not  preserved  itself  to  me,  but  from  a  London  pirated 
copy  of  the  second  one  I  find  that  it  makes  up  about  half  of  my  first  book  in  London ; 
the  songs  my  heart  had  sung  as  I  galloped  alone  under  the  stars  of  Idaho  years 
before. 

But  my  health  and  eyes  had  failed  again ;  besides,  everything  was  at  sixes  and 
sevens,  and,  being  a  "cold-water  man,"  and  a  sort  of  preacher  and  teacher  on  all 
political  occasions,  I  was  so  unpopular,  that  when  I  asked  a  place  on  the  Supreme 
Bench  at  the  convention,  I  was  derisively  told,  "Better  stick  to  poetry."  Three 
months  later,  September  1,  1870, 1  was  kneeling  at  the  grave  of  Burns.  I  really 
expected  to  die  there,  in  the  land  of  my  fathers,  I  was  so  broken  and  ill. 


PREFACE. 


May  I  proudly  admit  that  I  had  sought  a  place  on  the  Supreme  Bench  in  order 
that  I  might  the  more  closely  * '  stick  to  poetry  "  ?  I  have  a  serious  purpose  in  saying 
this.  Was  Lowell  a  bad  diplomat  because  he  was  a  good  poet?  Was  Gladstone  less 
great  because  of  his  three  hundred  books  and  pamphlets?  The  truth  is,  there  never 
was,  never  will  be,  a  great  general,  judge,  lawyer,  anything,  without  being,  at  heart 
at  least,  a  great  poet.  Then  let  not  our  conventions,  presidents,  governors,  despise 
the  young  poet  who  does  seek  expression.  We  have  plenty  of  lawyers,  judges, 
silent  great  men  of  all  sorts ;  yet  the  land  is  songless.  Had  my  laudable  ambition, 
not  been  despised,  how  much  better  I  might  have  sung,  who  shall  say? 

Let  us  quote  a  few  lines  from  the  last  pages  of  my  little  book,  published  before 
setting  out.  They  will  show,  not  poetry  perhaps,  but  resignation,  a  belief  in  im 
mortality,  a  hope  to  be  read  in  Europe,  and  a  singularly  early  desire  to  not  be 
formally  buried,  but  to  pass  in  clouds  and  ashes. 


ULTIME. 


Had  I  been  content  to  live  on  the  leafy  borders  of  the  scene, 
Communing  with  neglected  dwellers  of  the  fern-grown  glen, 

And  glorious  storm-stained  peaks,  with  cloud-knit  sheen, 

And  sullen  iron  brows,  and  belts  of  boundless  green, 
A  peaceful,  flowery  path,  content  I  might  have  trod, 

And  caroled  melodies  that  might  have  been 
Read  with  love  and  a  sweet  delight.    But  I  kiss  the  rod. 
I  have  done  as  best  I  knew.    The  rest  is  with  my  God. 

Come  forward  here  to  me,  ye  who  have  a  fear  of  death, 
Come  down,  far  down,  even  to  the  dark  waves'  rim. 

And  take  my  hand,  and  feel  my  calm,  low  breath ; 
How  peaceful  all !    How  still  and  sweet !    The  sight  is  dim, 
And  dreamy  as  a  distant  sea.    And  melodies  do  swim 

Around  us  here  as  a  far-off  vesper's  holy  hymn. 
This  is  Death.     With  folded  hands  I  wait  and  welcome  him  ; 

And  yet  a  few,  some  few,  were  kind.    I  would  live  and  so  be  known, 

That  their  sweet  deeds  might  be  as  bread  on  waters  thrown. 

I  go,  I  know  not  where,  but  know  I  shall  not  die, 
And  know  I  shall  be  gainer  going  to  that  somewhere ; 

For  in  that  hereafter,  afar  beyond  the  bended  sky, 
Bread  and  butter  will  not  figure  in  the  bill  of  fare, 
Nor  will  the  soul  be  judged  by  what  the  flesh  may  wear. 

But  with  all  my  time  my  own,  once  in  the  dapple  skies, 
I  will  collect  my  fancies  now  floating  in  the  air, 

And  arrange  them,  a  jewel  set,  that  in  a  show-case  lies, 

And  when  you  come  will  show  you  them  in  a  sweet  surprise. 


PREFACE.  XI 


It  was  my  boy-ambition  to  be  read  beyond  the  brine, 
But  this,  you  know,  was  when  life  looked  fair  and  tall, 

Erewhile  this  occidental  rim  was  all  my  dream's  confine, 
And  now  at  last  I  make  no  claim  to  be  read  at  all, 
And  write  with  this  wild  hope,  and  even  that  is  small, 

That  when  the  last  pick-ax  lies  rusting  in  the  ravine, 
And  its  green  bent  hillsides  echo  the  shepherd's  call, 

Some  curious  wight  will  thumb  this  through,  saying,  "Well,  I  ween 

He  was  not  a  poet,  but  yet,  and  yet,  he  might  have  been." 


But  to  conclude.    Do  not  stick  me  down  in  the  cold,  wet  mud, 

As  if  I  wished  to  hide,  or  was  ashamed  of  what  I  had  done, 
Or  my  friends  believed  me  born  of  slime,  with  torpid  blood. 

No,  when  this  the  first  short  quarter  of  my  life  is  run, 

Let  me  ascend  in  clouds  of  smoke  up  to  the  sun. 
And  as  for  these  lines,  they  are  a  rough,  wildwood  bouquet, 

Plucked  from  my  mountains  in  the  dusk  of  life,  as  one 
Without  taste  or  time  to  select,  or  put  in  good  array, 
Grasps  at  once  rose,  leaf,  brier,  on  the  brink,  and  hastes  away. 

Fault  may  be  found,  as  with  Hawthorne  when  he  gathered  up  his  Tales,  that  all 
I  have  written  is  not  here.  Let  me  answer,  with  him,  that  all  I  wish  to  answer  for 
is  here.  The  author  must  be  the  sole  judge  as  to  what  belongs  to  the  public  and 
what  to  the  flames.  Much  that  I  have  written  has  been  on  trial  for  many  years. 
The  honest,  wise  old  world  of  to-day  is  a  fairly  safe  jury.  While  it  is  true  the  poet 
must  lead  rather  than  be  led,  yet  must  he  lead  pleasantly,  patiently,  or  he  may  not 
lead  at  all.  So  that  which  the  world  let  drop  out  of  sight  as  the  years  surged  by,  I 
have,  as  a  rule,  not  cared  to  introduce  a  second  time. 

For  example,  take  the  lines  written  on  the  dead  millionaire  of  New  York.  There 
were  perhaps  a  dozen  verses  at  first,  but  the  world  found  use  for  and  kept  before  it 
only  the  two  following : — 

The  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 

In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 

At  night  to  walk  upon, 
The  diamonds  gleaming  in  the  dew, 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 

Some  silver,  crushed  frori  stones ; 
But  the  gold  was  red  with  dead  men's  blood, 

The  silver,  black  with  groans ; 
And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud, 
"They  '11  make  no  pocket  in  my  shroud." 


Xll  PREFACE. 


The  antithesis  of  this  ugly  truth  in  poetry,  the  lines  to  Peter  Cooper's  memory, 
also  shared  the  same  fate.  The  world  did  not  want  all  I  had  to  say  of  this  gentle 
old  man,  and  kept  only  the  three  little  verses  :  — 

Honor  and  glory  for  evermore 

To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest ; 
Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore ; 

Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 

I  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 

That  ever  drew  sword  in  war ; 
Nobler,  better,  than  king  or  khan, 

Better,  wiser,  by  far. 

Aye,  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 

Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray ; 
For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold,  dead  hand 

Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

May  I,  an  old  teacher,  in  conclusion,  lay  down  a  lesson  or  two  for  the  young  in 
letters?  After  the  grave  of  Burns,  then  a  month  at  Byron's  tomb,  then  Schiller, 
Goethe ;  before  battle-fields.  Heed  this.  The  poet  must  be  loyal,  loyal  not  only  to 
his  God  and  his  country,  but  loyal,  loving,  to  the  great  masters  who  have  nourished 
him. 

This  devotion  to  the  masters  led  me  to  first  set  foot  in  London,  near  White- 
chapel,  where  Bayard  Taylor  had  lived ;  although  I  went  at  once  to  the  Abbey. 
Then  I  lived  at  Camber  well,  because  Browning  was  born  there ;  then  at  Hemming- 
ford  Road,  because  Tom  Hood  died  there. 

A  thin  little  book  now,  called  "Pacific  Poems,"  and  my  hands  were  empty  be 
fore  it  was  out,  for  I  could  not  find  a  publisher.  One  hundred  were  printed,  bear 
ing  the  name  of  the  printer  as  publisher.  What  fortune !  With  the  press  notices 
in  hand,  I  now  went  boldly  to  the  most  aristocratic  publisher  in  London. 

One  word  as  to  the  choice  of  theme.  First,  let  it  be  new.  The  world  has  no  need 
of  two  Goethes,  or  even  a  second  Shakespeare,  were  he  possible.  We  are  all  too 
ready  to  choose  some  lurid  battle  theme  or  exalted  subject.  Exalt  your  theme, 
rather  than  ask  your  theme  to  exalt  you.  Braver  and  better  to  celebrate  the  lowly 
and  forgiving  grasses  underfoot  than  the  stately  cedars  and  sequoias  overhead. 
They  can  speak  for  themselves.  It  has  been  scornfully  said  that  all  my  subjects 
are  of  the  low  or  savage.  It  might  have  been  as  truly  said  that  some  of  my  heroes 
and  heroines,  as  Riel  and  Sophia  Petrowska,  died  on  the  scaffold.  But  believe  me, 
the  people  of  heart  are  the  unfortunate.  How  unfortunate  that  man  who  never 
knew  misfortune !  And,  thank  God,  the  heart  of  the  world  is  with  the  unfortunate ! 
There  never  yet  has  been  a  great  poem  written  of  a  rich  man  or  gross.  And  I  glory 
in  the  fact  that  I  never  celebrated  war  or  warriors.  Thrilling  as  are  war  themes, 
you  will  not  find  one,  purposely,  in  all  my  books.  If  you  would  have  the  heart  of 
the  world  with  you,  put  heart  in  your  work,  taking  care  that  you  do  not  try  to  pass 


PREFACE.  Xlll 


brass  for  gold.  They  are  much  alike  to  look  upon,  but  only  the  ignorant  can  be  de 
ceived. 

A  true  seer  will  see  that  which  is  before  him,  and  about  him,  in  and  of  his  own 
land  and  life.  "  The  eyes  of  the  fool  are  in  the  ends  of  the  earth. "  The  real  and 
reasonable  should  best  inspire  us.  I  do  not  care  to  explore  impossible  hells  with 
either  dolorous  Dante  or  majestic  Milton.  I  do  not  believe  there  are  any  such 
places,  save  as  we  make  them  in  our  own  minds.  Indeed,  life  would  be  fearful 
could  I  be  made  to  believe  that  the  heart  of  this  beautiful  globe  is  filled  with 
human  beings  writhing  in  eternal  torments  under  my  feet.  Such  books  can  do  no 
good ;  and  the  only  excuse  for  any  book  is  the  pleasure  it  can  give  and  the  good  it 
can  do. 

Let  me  again  invoke  you,  be  loyal  to  your  craft,  not  only  to  your  craft,  but  to 
your  fellow-scribes.  To  let  envy  lure  you  to  leer  at  even  the  humblest  of  them  is  to 
admit  yourself  beaten ;  to  admit  yourself  to  be  one  of  the  thousand  failures  betray 
ing  the  one  success.  Braver  it  were  to  knife  in  the  back  a  holy  man  at  prayer.  I 
plead  for  something  more  than  the  individual  here.  I  plead  for  the  entire  Republic. 
To  not  have  a  glorious  literature  of  our  own  is  to  be  another  Nineveh,  Babylon, 
Turkey.  Nothing  ever  has  paid,  nothing  ever  will  pay,  a  nation  like  poetry.  How 
many  millions  have  we  paid,  are  still  paying,  bleak  and  rocky  little  Scotland  to 
behold  the  land  of  Burns?  Byron  led  the  world  to  scatter  its  gold  through  the 
ruins  of  Italy,  where  he  had  mused  and  sung,  and  Italy  was  rebuilt.  Greece  sur 
vived  a  thousand  years  on  the  melodies  of  her  mighty  dead. 

Finally,  use  the  briefest  little  bits  of  baby  words  at  hand.  Write  this  down  in 
red,  and  remember. 

Shall  we  ever  have  an  American  literature?  Yes,  when  we  leave  sound  and  words 
to  the  winds.  American  science  has  swept  time  and  space  aside.  American  science 
dashes  along  at  fifty,  sixty  miles  an  hour ;  but  American  literature  still  lumbers 
along  in  the  old-fashioned  English  stage-coach  at  ten  miles  an  hour ;  and  sometimes 
with  a  red-coated  outrider  blowing  a  horn.  We  must  leave  all  this  behind  us.  We 
have  not  time  for  words.  A  man  who  uses  a  great,  big,  sounding  word,  when  a  short 
one  will  do,  is  to  that  extent  a  robber  of  time.  A  jewel  that  depends  greatly  on  its 
setting  is  not  a  great  jewel.  When  the  Messiah  of  American  literature  comes,  he  will 
come  singing,  so  far  as  may  be,  in  words  of  one  syllable. 

JOAQUIN  MILLER. 
THE  EIGHTS,  DIMOND,  CALIFORNIA, 
June  1, 1902. 

N.  B.  —  This  is  the  only  authorized  and  complete  collection  of  my  poems.  A 
Toronto  publisher  pirated  my  first  book  from  London,  a  Boston  house  did  the  same, 
then  a  Chicago  publisher  put  out  two  flashily  bound  volumes,  but  the  honest  old 
world  refused  to  patronize  such  frauds,  and  I  never  once  appealed  to  the  courts. 

j.  M. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONGS   OF  THE  SIERRAS 1 

THE  ARIZONIAN 1 

WITH  WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA 9 

THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE  19 

THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS 31 

JOAQUIN  MURIETTA 36 

INA 41 

EVEN  So 50 

MYRRH 55 

KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE 57 

WHEN  LITTLE  SISTER  CAME 61 

OLIVE  LEAVES 63 

AT  BETHLEHEM 63 

' '  LA  NOTTE  " 63 

IN  PALESTINE 63 

BEYOND  JORDAN 64 

FAITH 64 

HOPE 64 

CHARITY 65 

THE  LAST  SUPPER 66 

A  SONG  FOR  PEACE 66 

SONGS  OF  THE  SUNLANDS 69 

THE  SEA  OF  FIRE 69 

ISLES  OF  THE  AMAZONS 82 

AN  INDIAN  SUMMER 109 

FROM  SEA  TO  SEA 113 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SOUTH 116 

THE  SHIP  IN  THE  DESERT 139 

PICTURES 163 

THE  SIERRAS  FROM  THE  SEA 163 

WHERE  ROLLS  THE  OREGON 164 

XT 


CONTENTS. 


PICTURE  OF  A  BULL 165 

VAQUERO 166 

IN  THE  GEEAT  EMERALD  LAND 166 

PILGRIMS  OF  THE  PLAINS 167 

THE  HEROES  OF  MY  WEST 169 

ENGLAND 170 

LONDON 170 

ST.  PAUL'S 171 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY 171 

AT  LORD  BYRON'S  TOMB 171 

To  REST  AT  LAST 172 

BEFORE  CORTEZ  CAME 173 

IN  THE  SIERRAS  174 

PROPHECY * 174 

QUESTION   175 

THOMAS  OF  TIGRE 176 

MRS.  FRANK  LESLIE 176 

THE  POET 177 

DYSPEPTIC 177 

VALE  !  AMERICA 179 

THE  QUEST  OF  LOVE 182 

AFRICA 183 

^  CROSSING  THE  PLAINS 184 

THE  MEN  OF  FORTY-NINE 185 

HEROES  OF  AMERICA 186 

ATTILA'S  THRONE :  TORCELLO 186 

^  WESTWARD  Ho ! 187 

VENICE 188 

A  HAILSTORM  IN  VENICE 189 

SANTA  MARIA  :  TORCELLO 189 

CARMEN 1^ 

To  THE  JERSEY  LILY 190 

IN  A  GONDOLA 191 

LATER  POEMS 193 

THE  GOLD  THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA  TOWN 193 

THE  Sioux  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTER  .   194 

To  THE  CZAR I96 

To  RUSSIA.  .  197 


CONTENTS.  XV11 


To  RACHEL  IN  RUSSIA 197 

THE  BRAVEST  BATTLE 198 

RIEL,  THE  REBEL 198 

A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  CUBA 199 

COMANCHE 200 

THE  SOLDIERS'  HOME,  WASHINGTON 201 

OLIVE 203 

THE  BATTLE  FLAG  AT  SHENANDOAH 203 

THE  LOST  REGIMENT 204 

CUSTER   206 

THE  WORLD  is  A  BETTER  WORLD 206 

OUTSIDE  OP  CHURCH 206 

DOWN  THE   MISSISSIPPI   AT   NlGHT 206 

A  NUBIAN  FACE  ON  THE  NILE 206 

LA  EXPOSICION  :  NEW  ORLEANS 207 

LINCOLN  PARK 207 

THE  RIVER  OF  REST 207 

THE  NEW  PRESIDENT 207 

MONTGOMERY  AT  QUEBEC 208 

BY  THE  BALBOA  SEAS 208 

MAGNOLIA  BLOSSOMS 208 

CALIFORNIA'S  CHRISTMAS 208 

THOSE  PERILOUS  SPANISH  EYES  209 

NEWPORT  NEWS   209 

THE  COMING  OF  SPRING 209 

OUR  HEROES  OF  TO-DAY 210 

BY  THE  LOWER  MISSISSIPPI 211 

HER  PICTURE 211 

DROWNED 212 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE 213 

BY  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAN 213 

CHRISTMAS  BY  THE  GREAT  RIVER 214 

GRANT  AT  SHILOH 214 

TWILIGHT  AT  THE  HIGHTS 215 

ARBOR  DAY  215 

PETER  COOPER 215 

THE  DEAD  MILLIONAIRE 215 

THE  LARGER  COLLEGE .  216 


XV111  CONTENTS. 


THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC 217 

A  DEAD  CARPENTER 218 

OLD  GIB  AT  CASTLE  ROCKS 218 

DON'T  STOP  AT  THE  STATION  DESPAIR 221 

THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES 221 

BACK  TO  THE  GOLDEN  GATE 221 

DEAD  IN  THE  LONG,  STRONG  GRASS 222 

GARFIELD 222 

To  THE  CALIFORNIA  PIONEERS 224 

JAVA 224 

MOTHER  EGYPT 225 

THE  PASSING  OF  TENNYSON 225 

IN  CLASSIC  SHADES 226 

THAT  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON 227 

WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON 229 

HORACE  GREELEY'S  DRIVE 230 

THE  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF  IDAHO 232 

SARATOGA  AND  THE  PSALMIST 233 

A  TURKEY-HUNT  ON  THE  COLORADO '. 233 

THE  CAPUCIN  OF  ROME 235 

SUNRISE  IN  VENICE 236 

COMO 237 

BURNS 238 

BYRON  239 

ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS 241 

A  CALIFORNIA  CHRISTMAS 241 

THANKSGIVING,  1896 241 

"  '49" 242 

BATTLES 242 

SAN  DIEGO 242 

PIONEERS  TO  THE  GREAT  EMERALD  LAND 243 

ALASKA 243 

"THE  FOURTH "  IN  OREGON 244 

AN  ANSWER 246 

YOSEMITE 247 

DEAD  IN  THE  SIERRAS 247 

IN  PERE-LA-CHAISE  248 

ROME  .  .  249 


CONTENTS.  XIX 


"POVERIS  !  POVERIS  ! " 249 

AMERICA  TO  AMERICANS 249 

FATHER  DAMIEN  OP  HAWAII 250 

AT  OUR  GOLDEN  GATE 250 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DOVE 251 

rASHINGTON  BY  THE  DELAWARE 251 

FOR  THOSE  WHO  FAIL 252 

THE  LIGHT  OF  CHRIST'S  FACE 252 

v  COLUMBUS 253 

.  CUBA  LIBRE 253 

FINALE 254 

JUANITA 256 

SONGS  OF  THE  SOUL 257 

THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  EEAL 257 

A  DOVE  OF  ST.  MARK 266 

SUNSET  AND  DAWN  IN  SAN  DIEGO 273 

SAPPHO  AND  PHAON 281 

ADIOS * 307 

NEW  POEMS 309 

ENGLAND'S  LION 309 

THE  FOURTH  OF  OUR  FATHERS 309 

ARTESIA  OF  TULARE 311 

USLAND  TO  ENGLAND 312 

BOSTON  TO  THE  BOERS 313 

To  YE  FIGHTING  LORDS  OF  LONDON  TOWN 314 

ANGLO-SAXON  ALLIANCE 315 

INDIA  AND  THE  BOERS 315 

AT  THE  CALEND'S  CLOSE 316 

As  IT  is  WRITTEN 317 

To  OOM  PAUL  KRUGER 317 

USLAND  TO  THE  BOERS 318 

THAT  USSIAN  OF  USLAND 318 

THE  CALIFORNIA  POPPY 319 

THE  DEFENSE  OF  THE  ALAMO  . . '. 319 

CALIFORNIANS 320 

NOTES  . .  .321 


SONGS    OF    THE    SIERRAS. 


THE  ARIZONIAN. 

Come  to  my  sunland!    Come  with  me 
To  the  land  I  love ;  where  the  sun  and  sea 
Are  wed  for  ever ;  where  the  palm  and  pine 
A  re  filVd  with  singers ;   where  tree  and  vine 
Are  voiced  with  prophets!    O  come,  and  you 
Shall  sing  a  song  with  the  seas  that  swirl 
And  kiss  their  hands  to  that  cold  white  girl, 
To  the  maiden  moon  in  her  mantle  of  blue. 


41  And  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  ever, 
As  the  years  go  on  and  the  world  goes 

over, 

Twere  better  to  be  content  and  clever, 
In  the  tending  of  cattle  and  the  tossing  of 

clover, 
In  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  growing  of 

grain, 
Than  a  strong  man  striving  for  fame  or 

gain; 

Be  even  as  kine  in  the  red-tipped  clover: 
For  they  lie  down  and  their  rests  are  rests, 
And  the  days  are  theirs,  come  sun,  come 

rain, 

To  rest,  rise  up,  and  repose  again; 
While  we  wish  and  yearn,  and  do  pray  in 

vain, 

And  hope  to  ride  on  the  billows  of  bosoms, 
And  hope  to  rest  in  the  haven  of  breasts, 
Till  the  heart  is  sicken'd  and  the  fair  hope 

dead — 

Be  even  as  clover  with  its  crown  of  blos 
soms, 

Even  as  blossoms  ere  the  bloom  is  shed, 

Kiss'd  by  the  kine  and  the  brown  sweet 
bee— 

For  these  have  the  sun,  and  moon,  and  air, 


And  never  a  bit  of  the  burthen  of  care: 
Yet  with  all  of  our  caring  what  more  have 
we? 

"I    would   court   content   like   a  lover 

lonely, 
I  would  woo  her,  win  her,  and  wear  her 

only. 
And  would  never  go  over  the  white  sea 

wall 
For  gold  or  glory  or  for  aught  at  all." 

He  said  these  things  as  he  stood  with 

the  Squire 

By  the  river's  rim  in  the  field  of  clover, 
While  the  stream  flow'd  on  and  the  clouds 

flew  over, 
With  the  sun  tangled  in  and  the  fringes 

afire. 

So  the  Squire  lean'd  with  a  kindly  glory 
To  humor  his  guest,  and  to  hear  his  story; 
For  his  guest  had  gold,  and  he  yet  was 

clever, 
And  mild  of  manner;  and,  what  was  more, 

he, 
In  the  morning's  ramble  had  praised  the 

kine. 


THE    ARIZONIAN. 


The  clover's  reach  and  the  meadows  fine, 
Aiid  so  made  the  Squire  his  friend  forever. 

His  brow  was  browu'd  by  the  sun  and 

weather, 

And  touch'd  by  the  terrible  hand  of  time; 
His  rich  black  beard  had  a  fringe  of  rime, 
As  silk  and  silver  inwove  together. 
There   were  hoops   of   gold  all   over  his 

hands, 

And  across  his  breast  in  chains  and  bonds, 
Broad  and  massive  as  belts  of  leather. 

And  the  belts  of  gold  were  bright  in  the 

sun, 
But   brighter   than   gold   his   black   eyes 

shone 
From  their  sad  face-setting  so  swarth  and 

dun — 

Brighter  than  beautiful  Santau  stone, 
Brighter  eveii  than  balls  of  fire, 
As  he  said,  hot-faced,  in  the  face  of  the 

Squire: — 

"The pines  bow'd  over,  the  stream  bent 

under, 
The  cabin  was  cover'd  with  thatches  of 

palm 

Down  in  a  canon  so  deep,  the  wonder 
Was  what  it  could  know  in  its  clime  but 

calm; 

Down  in  a  canon  so  cleft  asunder 
By    sabre-stroke    in    the    young   world's 

prime, 

It  look'd  as  if  broken  by  bolts  of  thunder, 
And  burst  asunder  and  rent  and  riven 
By  earthquakes  driven  that  turbulent  time 
The  red  cross  lifted  red  hands  to  heaven. 

"And  this  in  that  land  where  the  sun 

goes  down 
And    gold  is    gather'd    by  tide  and    by 

stream, 
And  the  maidens  are  brown  as  the  cocoa 

brown, 
And  life  is  a  love  and  a  love  is  a  dream; 


Where  the  winds   come   in  from   the  far 

Cathay 

With  odor  of  spices  and  balm  and  bay, 
And  summer  abideth  with  man  alway, 
Nor  conies  in  a  tour  with  the  stately 

June, 
And  comes  too  late  and  returns  too  soon. 

"She  stood  in  the  shadows  as  the  sun 

went  down, 

Fretting  her  hair  with  her  fingers  brown, 
As  tall  as  the  silk-tipp'd  tassel'd  corn — 
Stood  watching,  dark  brow'd,  as  I  weighed 

the  gold 
We  had  wash'd  that  day  where  the  river 

roll'd; 
And  her  proud  lip  curl'd  with  a  sun-clime 

scorn, 
As  she  ask'd,  '  Is  she  better,  or  fairer  than 

I?— 

She,  that  blonde  in  the  land  beyond, 
Where  the  sun  is  hid  and    the  seas  are 

high- 
That  you   gather  in  gold  as  the  years  go 

by, 

And  hoard  and  hide  it  away  for  her 
As  the  squirrel  burrows  the  black  pine- 
burr? 

"Now  the  gold  weigh'd  well,  but  was 

lighter  of  weight 

Than  we  two  had  taken  for  days  of  late, 
So  I  was  fretted,  and  brow  a-frown, 
I    said,    half  -  angered,    with    head    held 

down  — 
'  Well,  yes,  she  is  fairer;  and  I  loved  her 

first: 
And  shall  love  her  last,  come  worst  to  the 

worst.' 

' '  Her  lips   grew    livid,    and    her   eyes 

afire 
As   I   said    this   thing;    and   higher  and 

higher 

The  hot  words  ran,   when  the  booming 
thunder 


THE    ARIZONIAN. 


Peal'd   in    the   crags    and   the  pine-tops 

under, 

While  up  by  the  cliff  in  the  murky  skies 
It  look'd  as  the   clouds   had  caught  the 

fire— 

The    flash    and    fire    of    her    wonderful 
eyes! 

"She  turn'd  from  the  door  and  down 
to  the  river, 

And  mirror'd  her  face  in  the  whimsical 
tide, 

Then  threw  back  her  hair  as  one  throwing 
a  quiver, 

As  an  Indian  throws  it  back  far  from  his 
side 

And  free  from  his  hands,  swinging  fast  to 
the  shoulder 

When  rushing  to  battle;  and,  turning, 
she  sigh'd 

And  shook,  and  shiver'd  as  aspens  shiver. 

Then  a  great  green  snake  slid  into  the 
river, 

Glistening  green,  and  with  eyes  of  fire; 

Quick,  double-handed  she  seized  a  boulder, 

And  cast  it  with  all  the  fury  of  passion, 

As  with  lifted  head  it  went  curving  across, 

Swift  darting  its  tongue  like  a  fierce  de 
sire, 

Curving  and  curving,  lifting  higher  and 
higher, 

Bent  and  beautiful  as  a  river  moss; 

Then,  smitten,  it  turn'd,  bent,  broken  and 
doubled 

And  lick'd,  red-tongued,  like  a  forked  fire, 

Then  sank  and  the  troubled  waters  bub 
bled 

And  so  swept  on  in  the  old  swift  fashion. 

"I  lay  in  my  hammock:    the  air  was 

heavy 

And  hot  and  threat'ning;  the  very  heaven 
Was  holding  its  breath;  and  bees  in  a  bevy 
Hid  under  my  thatch;  and  birds  were 

driven 

In  clouds  to  the  rocks  in  a  hurried  whirr 
As  I  peer'd  down  by  the  path  for  her. 


"She  stood  like  a  bronze  bent  over  the 

river, 

The  proud  eyes  fix'd,thepassion  unspoken. 
Then  the  heavens  broke  like  a  great  dyke 

broken ; 

And  ere  I  fairly  had  time  to  give  her 
A  shout  of  warning,  a  rushing  of  wind 
And  the  rolling  of  clouds  and  a  deafening 

din 
And  a  darkness  that  had  been  black  to  the 

blind 
Came  down,  as  I  shouted  'Come  in!  Come 

in! 
Come  under  the  roof,  come  up  from  the 

river, 
As  up  from  a  grave — come  now,  or  come 

never!' 
The  tassel'd  tops   of  the  pines  were  as 

weeds, 
The  red-woods  rock'd  like   to   lake-side 

reeds, 
And    the    world    seemed    darken'd    and 

drown'd  forever, 
While  I   crouched  low;  as  a   beast    that 

bleeds. 

"One  time  in   the  night  as  the  black 

wind  shifted, 
And  a  flash  of  lightning  stretch'd  over  the 

stream, 
I  seemed  to  see  her  with  her  brown  hands 

lifted— 

Only  seem'd  to  see  as  one  sees  in  a  dream — 
With  her  eyes  wide  wild  and  her  pale  lips 

press'd, 
And  the  blood  from  her  brow,  and  the 

flood  to  her  breast; 
When  the  flood  caught  her  hair  as  flax  in 

a  wheel, 
And  wheeling  and  whirling  her  round  like 

a  reel; 
Laugh'd  loud  her  despair,  then  leapt  like 

a  steed, 
Holding  tight  to  her  hair,  folding  fast  to 

her  heel, 
Laughing  fierce,  leaping  far  as  if  spurr'd 

to  its  speed! 


THE    ARIZONIAN, 


' '  Now  mind,  I  tell  you  all  this  did  but 

seem — 
Was  seen  as  you  see  fearful  scenes  in  a 

dream ; 

For  what  the  devil  could  the  lighting  show 
In  a  night  like  that,  I  should  like  to  know  ? 

"  And    then    I  slept,    and    sleeping    I 

dream 'd 
Of  great  green  serpents  with  tongues  of 

fire, 
And  of  death  by  drowning,  and  of  after 

death — 

Of  the  day  of  judgment,  wherein  it  seem'd 
That  she,  the  heathen,  was  bidden  higher, 
Higher  than  I;  that  I  clung  to  her  side, 
And   clinging   struggled,   and   struggling 

cried, 
And   crying,    wakened   all    weak    of    my 

breath. 

"Long  leaves  of  the  sun  lay  over  the 

floor, 

And  a  chipmunk  chirp'd  in  the  open  door, 
While  above  on  his  crag  the  eagle  screain'd, 
Scream'd  as  he  never  had  scream'd  before. 
I  rush'd  to  the  river:  the  flood  had  gone 
Like  a  thief,  with  only  his  tracks  upon 
The  weeds  and  grasses  and  warm  wet  sand, 
And  I  ran  after  with  reaching  hand. 
And  call'd  as  I  reach'd,  and  reach'd  as  I  ran, 
And  ran  till  I  came  to  the  canon's  van, 
Where  the  waters  lay  in  a  bent  lagoon, 
Hook'd  and  crook'd  like  the  horned  moon. 

' { And  there  in  the  surge  where  the  waters 

met, 
And  the  warm  wave  lifted,  and  the  winds 

did  fret 
The  wave  till  it  foam'd  with  rage  on  the 

land, 
She  lay  with  the  wave  on  the  warm  white 

sand; 
Her  rich   hair  trailed   with   the  trailing 

weeds, 
While  her  small  brown  hands  lay  prone  or 

lifted 


As  the  waves  sang  strophes  in  the  broken 

reeds, 

Or  paused  in  pity,  and  in  silence  sifted 
Sands  of  gold,  as  upon  her  grave. 

"  And  as  sure  as  you  see  yon  browsing 
kine, 

And  breathe  the  breath  of  your  meadows 
fine, 

When  I  went  to  my  waist  in  the  warm 
white  wave 

And  stood  all  pale  in  the  wave  to  my  breast, 

And  reach'd  my  hands  in  her  rest  and  un 
rest, 

Her  hands  were  lifted  and  reach'd  to  mine. 

"Now  mind,  I  tell  you,  I  cried,  'Come 

in! 
Come  into  the  house,  come  out  from  the 

hollow, 
Come  out  of  the  storm,  come  up  from  the 

river!' 

Aye,  cried,  and  call'd  in  that  desolate  din, 
Though  I  did  not  rush  out,  and  in  plain 

words  give  her 

A  wordy  warning  of  the  flood  to  follow, 
Word  by  word,  and  letter  by  letter; 
But  she  knew  it  as  well  as  1,  and  better; 
For  once  in  the  desert  of  New  Mexico 
When  we  two  sought  frantically  far  and 

wide 

For  the  famous  spot  where  Apaches  shot 
With  bullets  of  gold  their  buffalo, 
And   she   stood   faithful  to  death  at  my 

side, 

I  threw  me  down  in  the  hard  hot  sand 
Utterly  farnish'd,  and  ready  to  die; 
Then  a  speck  arose  in  the  red-hot  sky — 
A  speck  no  larger  than  a  lady's  hand- 
While  she  at  my  side  bent  tenderly  over, 
Shielding  my   face  from   the    sun    as  a 

cover, 
And  wetting  my  face,  as  she  watch'd  by 

my  side, 
From  a  skin  she  had  borne  till  the  high 

noontide, 


THE    ARIZONIAN. 


(I   had  emptied  mine   in  the  heat  of  the 

morning) 
When  the  thunder  mutter'd  far  over  the 

plain 

Like  a  monster  bound  or  a  beast  in  pain: 
She  sprang    the    instant,   and    gave    the 

warning, 
With   her  brown  hand    pointed    to    the 

burning  skies, 

For  I  was  too  weak  unto  death  to  rise. 
But  she  knew  the  peril,  and  her  iron  will, 
With  a  heart  as  true  as  the  great  North 

Star, 

Did  bear  me  up  to  the  palm-tipp'd  hill, 
Where  the   fiercest   beasts   in  a  brother 
hood, 
Beasts  that  had  fled  from  the  plain  and 

far, 

In  perfectest  peace  expectant  stood, 
With  their  heads   held    high,   and    their 

limbs  a-quiver. 

Then  ere  she  barely  had  time  to  breathe 
The  boiling  waters  began  to  seethe 
From  hill  to  hill  in  a  booming  river, 
Beating  and  breaking  from  hill  to  hill — 
Even  while  yet  the  sun  shot  fire, 
Without  the  shield  of  a  cloud  above — 
Filling  the  canon  as  you  would  fill 
A  wine-cup,  drinking  in  swift  desire, 
With  the  brim  new-kiss'd  by  the  lips  you 

love! 

"  So  you  see  she  knew — knew  perfectly 

well, 

As  well  as  I  could  shout  and  tell, 
That  the  mountain  would  send  a  flood  to 

the  plain, 

Sweeping  the  gorge  like  a  hurricane, 
When  the  fire  flash'd  and  the  thunder  fell. 

"Therefore  it   is    wrong,    and    I    say 

therefore 
Unfair,    that    a    mystical,    brown-wing'd 

moth 

Or  midnight  bat  should  forevermore 
Fan  past  my  face  with  its  wings  of  air, 


And  follow  me  up,  down,  everywhere, 
Flit  past,  pursue  me,  or  fly  before, 
Dimly  limning  in  each  fair  place 
The  full  fixed  eyes  and  the  sad,  brown  face, 
So  forty  times  worse  than  if  it  were  wroth! 

"I  gather'd  the  gold  I  had  hid  in  the 

earth, 

Hid  over  the  door  and  hid  under  the  hearth: 
Hoarded  and  hid,  as  the  world  went  over, 
For  the  love  of  a  blonde  by  a  sun-brown'd 

lover, 

And  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  set  my  face 
To  the  East  and  afar  from  the  desolate 

place, 
'  She  has  braided  her  tresses,  and  through 

her  tears 

Look'd  away  to  the  West  for  years,  the  years 
That  I  have  wrought  where  the  sun  tans 

brown; 
She  has  waked  by  night,  she  has  watch'd 

by  day, 

She  has  wept  and  wonder'd  at  my  delay, 
Alone  and  in  tears,  with  her  head  held  down, 
Where  the   ships  sail   out   and  the   seas 

swirl  in, 
Forgetting  to  knit  and  refusing  to  spin. 

"She  shall  lift  her  head,  she  shall  see 

her  lover, 
She  shall  hear  his  voice  like  a  sea  that 

rushes, 
She  shall  hold  his  gold  in  her  hands  of 

snow, 
And  down  on  his  breast  she  shall  hide  her 

blushes, 

And  never  a  care  shall  her  true  heart  know, 
While  the  clods  are  below,  or  the  clouds 

are  above  her. 

"On  the  fringe  of  the  night  she  stood 

with  her  pitcher 

At  the  old  town  fountain:  and  oh!   pass 
ing  fair. 

'I  am  riper  now,'  I  said,  'but  am  richer,' 
And  I  lifted  my  hand  to  my  beard  and 
hair: 


THE    ARIZONIAN. 


'I  am  burnt  by  the  sun,  I  am  brown 'd  by 

the  sea; 
I  am  white  of  my  beard,  and  am  bald,  may 

be; 
Yet  for  all  such  things  what  can  her  heart 

care  ? ' 

Then  she  moved;  and  I  said,  'How  mar 
velous  fair!' 
She  look'd  to  the  West,  with  her  arm  arch'd 

over; 

•Looking  for  me,  her  suii-brown'd  lover,' 
I  said  to  myself,  and  my  heart  grew  bold, 
And  I  stepp'd  me  nearer  to  her  presence 

there, 
As  approaching  a  friend;  for 'twas  here  of 

old 
Our  troths  were  plighted  and  the  tale  was 

told. 

"  How  young  she  was  and  how  fair  she 

was! 

How  tall  as  a  palm,  and  how  pearly  fair, 
As  the  night  came  down  on  her  glorious 

hair! 
Then  the  night  grew  deep  and  my  eyes 

grew  dim, 

And  a  sad-faced  figure  began  to  swim 
And  float  by  my  face,  flit  past,  then  pause, 
With  her  hands  held  up  and  her  head  held 

down, 
Yet  face  to   my  face;    and  that  face  was 

brown! 

"Now  why  did  she  come  and  confront 
me  there, 

With  the  flood  to  her  face  and  the  moist 
in  her  hair, 

And  a  mystical  stare  in  her  marvelous  eyes  ? 

I  had  call'd  to  her  twice,  'Come  in!  come 
in! 

Come  out  of  the  storm  to  the  calm  with 
in!' 

Now,  that  is  the  reason  I  do  make  complain 

That  for  ever  and  ever  her  face  should 
rise, 

Facing  face  to  face  with  her  great  sad 
eyes. 


"I  said   then    to  myself,  and  I  say  it 

again, 

Gainsay  it  you,  gainsay  it  who  will, 
I  shall  say  it  over  and  over  still, 
And  will  say  it  ever;  for  I  know  it  true, 
That  I  did  all  that  a  man  could  do 
(Some  men's  good  doings  are  done  in  vain) 
To  save  that  passionate  child  of  the  sun, 
With  her  love  as  deep  as  the  doubled  main, 
And  as  strong  and  fierce  as  a  troubled  sea — 
That  beautiful  bronze  with  its  soul  of  fire, 
Us  tropical  love  and  its  kingly  ire — 
That  child  as  fix'd  as  a  pyramid, 
As  tall  as  a  tule  and  pure  as  a  nun — 
And  all  there  is  of  it,  the  all  I  did, 
As  often  happens  was  done  in  vain. 
So  there  is  no  bit  of  her  blood  on  me. 

'  She  is  marvelous  young  and  is  wonder 
ful  fair,' 

I  said  again,  and  my  heart  grew  bold, 

And  beat  and  beat  a  charge  for  my  feet. 

'Time  that  defaces  us,  places,  and  replaces 
us, 

And  trenches  our  faces  in  furrows  for 
tears. 

Has  traced  here  nothing  in  all  these  years. 

'Tis  the  hair  of  gold  that  I  vex'd  of  old, 

The  marvelous  flowing,  gold-flower  of  hair, 

And  the  peaceful  eyes  in  their  sweet  sur 
prise 

That  I  have  kiss'd  till  the  head  swam 
round. 

And  the  delicate  curve  of  the  dimpled 
chin, 

And  the  pouting  lips  and  the  pearls  with 
in 

Are  the  same,  the  same,  but  so  young,  so 
fair!' 

My  heart  leapt  out  and  back  at  a  bound, 

As  a  child  that  starts,  then  stops,  then 
lingers. 

'How  wonderful  young!'  I  lifted  my  fin 
gers 

And  fell  to  counting  the  round  years  down 

That  I  had  dwelt  where  the  sun  tans  brown. 


THE    ARIZONIAN. 


"Four  full  hands,  and  a  finger  over! 
'  She  does  not  know  me,  her  truant  lover, ' 
I  said  to  myself,  for  her  brow  was  a-frown 
As  I  stepp'd  still  nearer,  with  my  head 

held  down, 
All  abash'd  and  in  blushes  my  brown  face 

over; 

'  She  does  not  know  me,  her  long  lost  lover, 
For  my  beard's  so  long  and  my  skin's  so 

brown 

That  I  well  might  pass  myself  for  another.' 
So  I  lifted  my  voice  and  I  spake  aloud: 
'Annette,  my  darling!  Annette  Macleod ! ' 
She   started,    she    stopped,    she    turn'd, 

amazed, 

She  stood  all  wonder,  her  eyes  wild-wide, 
Then  turii'd  in  terror  down  the  dusk  way 
side, 
And  cried  as   she  fled,    'The  man   he  is 

crazed, 
And   he   calls   the   maiden   name  oi   my 

mother!' 

"Let  the  world  turn  over,  and  over,  and 

over, 

And  toss  and  tumble  like  beasts  in  pain, 
Crack,  quake,  arid  tremble,  and  turn  full 

over 

And  die,  and  never  rise  up  again; 
Let  her  dash  her  peaks  through  the  purple 

cover, 
Let  her  plash  her  seas  in  the  face  of  the 

sun — 

I  have  no  one  to  love  me  now,  not  one, 
In  a  world  as  full  as  a  world  can  hold; 
So  I  will  get  gold  as  I  erst  have  done, 
I  will  gather  a  coffin  top-full  of  gold, 
To  take  to  the  door  of  Death,  to  buy — 
Buy  what,  when  I  double  my  hands  and 

die? 
"Go  down,  go  down  to  your  fields  of 

clover, 
Go  down  with  your  kine  to  the  pastures 

fine, 

And  give  no  thought,  or  care,  or  labor 
For  maid  or  man,  good  name  or  neighbor; 


For  I  gave  all  as  the  years  went  over — 
Gave  all  my  youth,  my  years  and  labor, 
And  a  heart  as  warm  as  the  world  is  cold, 
For  a  beautiful,  bright,  and  delusive  lie: 
Gave  youth,  gave  years,  gave  love  for  gold; 
Giving  and  getting,  yet  what  have  I? 

"The  red  ripe  stars  hang  low  overhead, 
Let  the  good  and  the  light  of  soul  reach  up, 
Pluck  gold  as  plucking  a  butter-cup: 
But  I  am  as  lead,  and  my  hands  are  red. 

"So  the  sun  climbs  up,  and   on,  and 

over, 

And  the  days  go  out  and  the  tides  come  in, 
And  the  pale  moon  rubs   on  her  purple 

cover 

Till  worn  as  thin  and  as  bright  as  tin; 
But  the  ways  are  dark  aud  the  days  are 

dreary, 
And  the  dreams  of  youth  are  but  dust  in 

age, 
And  the  heart   grows    harden'd  and   the 

hands  grow  weary, 
Holding  them  up  for  their  heritage. 

"  For  we  promise  so  great  and  we  gain 

so  little; 

For  we  promise  so  great  of  glory  and  gold, 
And  we  gain  so  little  that  the  hands  grow 

cold, 
And  the  strained  heart-strings  wear  bare 

and  brittle, 

And  for  gold  and  glory  we  but  gain  instead 
A  fond  heart  sicken'd  and  a  fair  hope  dead. 

"So  I  have  said,  and  I  say  it  over, 
And  can  prove  it  over  and  over  again, 
That  the  four-footed   beasts   in  the  red- 

crown'd  clover, 

The  pied  and  horned  beasts  on  the  plain 
That  lie  down,  rise  up,  and  repose  again, 
And  do  never  take  care  or  toil  or  spin, 
Nor  buy,  nor  build,  nor  gather  in  gold, 
As  the  days  go  out  and  the  tides  come  in, 
Are  better  than  we  by  a  thousand-fold; 
For  what  is  it  all,  in  the  words  of  fire, 
But  a  vexing  of  soul  and  a  vain  desire?" 


THE    ARIZONIAN. 


I  had  left  school  in  Oregon  in  the  early  fifties;  ran  away,  it  is  told.  The  truth  is  new  gold  mines  had  been 
found  a  few  hundred  miles  to  the  south,  near  the  California  line,  and,  as  we  were  always  poor,  my  elder  brother 
and  I  thought  it  a  good  thing  that  I  should  rush  in  and  locate  a  mining  claim.  We  could  not  get  heart  to  tell  our 
parents  and  I  left  at  night,  taking  my  school  books.  As  was  so  often  the  case,  the  rich  mines  were  "a  little  far 
ther  on,"  and  I  could  not  turn  back;  for  an  Indian  war  was  impending  between  where  I  was  and  home,  so  I  kept 
on.  Once  in  sight  of  Mount  Shasta  I  must  see  more,  and  finally  found  an  old  mountaineer  who  had  often  camped 
by  us  in  Oregon  with  his  pack  animals  and  companioned  with  Papa.  He  had  been  with  Fremont,  was  a  graduate 
of  Heidelberg,  and  gladly  helped  me  along  with  my  Latin.  His  trade  was  the  buying  of  wild  horses  by  the  herd 
from  the  Mexicans  far  south  and  driving  them  up  to  his  Soda  Spring  ranch  and  rich  grasses  at  the  base  of  Mount 
Shasta,  then  on  to  Oregon  till  tamed,  then  returning  to  California  with  a  pack  train  of  Oregon  produce.  By  attach 
ing  myself  to  him  the  way  seemed  clear  to  get  back  home,  in  the  course  of  time. 

He  finally  gave  me  a  share  in  his  wild  ranch  and  ventures,  and  I  made  two  of  these  long,  glorious  trips  of 
mountains,  deserts,  snow,  color;  gorgeousness  and  gorgeousness.  My  position  was  rather  that  of  cook  and  servant 
than  companion  and  partner,  for  he  had  some  rough  men  with  him  and  left  things  to  them.  But  I  could  live  on 
horseback  by  day  and  read  by  our  camp-fire  at  night,  and  that  was  enough. 

Mountain  Jo  was  a  good  man  at  heart,  but  a  sad  drunkard  and  a  hopelessly  helpless  business  man.  Besides, 
the  Indians  were  continually  provoked  to  war  by  his  rough  men  as  well  as  by  heartless  gold  hunters,  and  we  could 
do  little  but  fight.  He  lost  an  eye  and  when  I  got  back  home  after  years,  I  had  little  to  show  on  my  return  except 
some  ugly  and  still  painful  wounds.  But  I  had  not  been  idle,  and  with  help  from  Papa  and  some  indulgence  soon 
took  my  place  in  my  class  and  wrote  a  part  of  this  poem  crudely,  about  that  time. 

The  sudden  storm,  cloud-burst  and  flood  here  described  is  as  I  saw  it  in  Arizona;  the  comely  Indian  girl  I 
saw  perish  as  described,  near  Mount  Shasta.  I  located  the  final  scene  and  the  hero  in  Scotland  because  I  first  set 
foot  there  in  Europe,  and  because  our  family  was  of  Scotland.  Mountain  Jo  used  to  carry  in  his  pocket  a  rough 
gold  bullet  which  he  said  he  cut  from  the  neck  of  his  horse  after  a  battle  with  Apaches.  The  whole  story  was  not 
written  down  till  in  London.  I  liked  it  best,  and  so  put  it  first  in  "The  Songs  of  the  Sierras."  I  tell  all  this  to 
the  young  writer  for  a  purpose. 

In  Rome  I  once  watched  a  great  sculptor  fashion  a  noble  statue,  and  I  noticed  that  he  had  many  models. 
From  one  he  shaped  the  arms,  from  another  the  legs,  from  another  the  pose  of  the  head. 

So,  my  coming  poet  of  the  Sierras  and  great  sea,  you  may  gather  your  bouquet  of  song  from  many  hillsides 
but  do  not  entirely  imagine  all  your  flowers.  For  however  beautiful  they  may  seem  to  you,  they  will  not  seem 
quite  real  to  others. 

This  book,  in  the  following  lines,  was  dedicated  To  MAUD: 

Because  the  skies  were  blue,  because 
The  sun  in  fringes  of  the  sea 
Was  tangled,  and  delightfully 
Kept  dancing  on  as  in  a  waltz, 
And  tropic  trees  bowed  to  the  seas 
And  bloomed  and  bore  years  through  and  through. 
And  birds  in  blended  gold  and  blue 
Were  thick  and  sweet  as  swarming  bees, 
And  sang  as  if  in  Paradise 
And  all  that  Paradise  was  spring- 
Did  I  too  sing  with  lifted  eyes, 
Because  I  could  not  choose  but  sing. 

With  garments  full  of  sea  winds  blown 
From  isles  beyond  of  spice  and  balm 
Beside  the  sea,  beneath  her  palm, 
She  waits,  as  true  as  chiseled  stone. 
My  childhood's  child,  my  June  in  May, 
So  wiser  than  thy  father  is, 
These  lines,  these  leaves,  and  all  of  this 
Are  thine— a  loose,  uncouth  bouquet — 
So,  wait  and  watch  for  sail  or  sign, 
A  ship  shall  mount  the  hollow  seas 
Blown  to  thy  place  of  blossomed  trees, 
And  birds,  and  song,  and  Bummer-shine. 

I  throw  a  kiss  across  the  sea, 
I  drink  the  winds  as  drinking  wine, 
And  dream  they  all  are  blown  from  thee— 
I  catch  the  whispered  kiss  of  thine. 
Shall  I  return  with  lifted  face, 
Or  head  held  down  as  in  disgrace 
To  hold  thy  two  brown  hands  in  mine? 
ENGLAND,  1871. 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


WITH  WALKER  IN  NICARAGUA. 

That  man  who  lives  for  self  alone. 
Lives  for  the  meanest  mortal  known. 


He  was  a  brick:  let  this  be  said 

Above  my  brave  dishonor'd  dead. 

I  ask  no  more,  this  is  not  much, 

Yet  I  disdain  a  colder  touch 

To  memory  as  dear  as  his; 

For  he  was  true  as  God's  north  star, 

And  brave  as  Yuba's  grizzlies  are, 

Yet  gentle  as  a  panther  is, 

Mouthing  her  young  in  her  first  fierce  kiss. 

A  dash  of  sadness  in  his  air, 
Born,  may  be,  of  his  over  care, 
And  may  be,  born  of  a  despair 
In  early  love — I  never  knew; 
I  question'd  not,  as  many  do, 
Of  things  as  sacred  as  this  is; 
I  only  knew  that  he  to  me 
Was  all  a  father,  friend,  could  be; 
I  sought  to  know  no  more  than  this 
Of  history  of  him  or  his. 

A  piercing  eye,  a  princely  air, 
A  presence  like  a  chevalier, 
Half  angel  and  half  Lucifer; 
Sombrero  black,  with  plume  of  snow 
That  swept  his  long  silk  locks  below; 
A  red  serape  with  bars  of  gold, 
All  heedless  falling,  fold  on  fold; 
A  sash  of  silk,  where  flashing  swung 
A  sword  as  swift  as  serpent's  tongue, 
In  sheath  of  silver  chased  in  gold; 
And  Spanish  spurs  with  bells  of  steel 
That  dash'd  and  dangled  at  the  heel; 
A  face  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
Of  mingled  pleading  and  disdain, 
With  shades  of  glory  and  of  grief — 
The  famous  filibuster  chief 
Stood  front  his  men  amid  the  trees 
That  top  the  fierce  Cordilleras, 
With  bent  arm  arch'd  above  his  brow; — 
Stood  still — he  stands,  a  picture,  now — 
Long  gazing  down  the  sunset  seas. 


II. 


What  strange,  strong,  bearded  men  were 

these 

He  led  above  the  tropic  seas ! 
Men  sometimes  of  uncommon  birth, 
Men  rich  in  histories  untold, 
Who  boasted  not,  though  more  than  bold, 
Blown  from  the  four  parts  of  the  earth. 

Men  mighty-thew'd  as  Samson  was, 
That  had  been  kings  in  any  cause, 
A  remnant  of  the  races  past; 
Dark-brow'd  as  if  in  iron  cast, 
Broad-breasted  as  twin  gates  of  brass,— 
Men  strangely  brave  and  fiercely  true, 
Who  dared  the  West  when  giants  were, 
Who  err'd,  yet  bravely  dared  to  err , 
A  remnant  of  that  early  few 
Who  held  no  crime  or  curse  or  vice 
As  dark  as  that  of  cowardice; 
With  blendings  of  the  worst  and  best 
Of  faults  and  virtues  that  have  blest 
Or  cursed  or  thrill'd  the  human  breast. 

They  rode,  a  troop  of  bearded  men, 
Kode  two  and  two  out  from  the  town, 
And  some  were  blonde  and  some  were 

brown, 

And  all  as  brave  as  Sioux;  but  when 
From  San  Bennetto  south  the  line 
That  bound  them  in  the  laws  of  man 
Was   pass'd,    and   peace   stood  mute  be 
hind 

And  stream'd  a  banner  to  the  wind 
The  world  knew  not,  there  was  a  sign 
Of  awe,  of  silence,  rear  and  van. 

Men  thought  who  never  thought  before; 
I  heard  the  clang  and  clash  of  steel 
From  sword  at  hand  or  spur  at  heel 
And  iron  feet,  but  nothing  more. 
Some  thought  of  Texas,  some  of  Maine, 
Bat  one  of  rugged  Tennessee, — 


10 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


And  one  of  Avon  thought,  and  one 
Thought  of  an  isle  beneath  the  sun, 
And  one  of  Wabash,  one  of  Spain, 
And  one  turned  sadly  to  the  Spree. 

Defeat    meant    something    more    than 

death; 

The  world  was  ready,  keen  to  smite, 
As  stern  and  still  beneath  its  ban 
With  iron  will  and  bated  breath, 
Their  hands  against  their  fellow-man, 
They  rode — each  man  an  Ishmaelite. 
But  when  we  topped  the  hills  of  pine, 
These  men  dismounted,  doffd  their  cares, 
Talk'd  loud  and  laugh'd  old  love  affairs, 
And  on  the  grass  took  meat  and  wine, 
And  never  gave  a  thought  again 
To  land  or  life  that  lay  behind, 
Or  love,  or  care  of  any  kind 
Beyond  the  present  cross  or  pain. 

And  I,  a  waif  of   stormy  seas, 
A  child  among  such  men  as  these, 
Was  blown  along  this  savage  surf 
And  rested  with  them  on  the  turf, 
And  took  delight  below  the  trees. 
I  did  not  question,  did  not  care 
To  know  the  right  or  wrong.     I  saw 
That  savage  freedom  had  a  spell, 
And  loved  it  more  than  I  can  tell, 
And  snapp'd  my  fingers  at  the  law. 
I  bear  my  burden  of  the  shame, — 
I  shun  it  not,  and  naught  forget, 
However  much  I  may  regret: 
I  claim  some  candor  to  my  name, 
And  courage  cannot  change  or  die, — 
Did  they  deserve  to  die?  they  died! 
Let  justice  then  be  satisfied, 
And  as  for  me,  why,  what  am  I? 

The  standing  side  by  side  till  death, 
The  dying  for  some  wounded  friend, 
The  faith  that  failed  not  to  the  end, 
The  strong  endurance  till  the  breath 
And  body  took  their  ways  apart, 
I  only  know.     I  keep  my  trust. 
Their  vices!  earth  has  them  by  heart. 
Their  virtues!  they  are  with  their  dust. 


How  we  descended  troop  on  troop, 
As  wide-winged  eagles  downward  swoop! 
How  wound  we  through  the  fragrant  wood, 
With  all  its  broad  boughs  hung  in  green, 
With  sweeping  mosses  trail'd  between! 
How  waked  the  spotted  beasts  of  prey, 
Deep  sleeping  from  the  face  of  day, 
And  clashed  them  like  a  troubled  flood 
Down  some  defile  and  denser  wood! 

And  snakes,  long,  lithe  and  beautiful 
As  green  and  graceful  bough'd  bamboo, 
Did  twist  and  twine  them  through  and 

through 

The  boughs  that  hung  red-fruited  full. 
One,  monster-sized,  above  me  hung, 
Close  eyed  me  with  his  bright  pink  eyes, 
Then   raised   his  folds,   and   sway'd  and 

swung, 

And  lick'd  like  lightning  his  red  tongue, 
Then  oped  his  wide  mouth  with  surprise; 
He  writhed  and  curved  and  raised  and 

lower'd 

His  folds  like  liftings  of  the  tide, 
Then  sank  so  low  I  touch'd  his  side, 
As  I  rode  by,  with  my  bright  sword. 

The  trees  shook  hands  high  overhead, 
And  bow'd  and  intertwined  across 
The  narrow  way,  while  leaves  and  moss 
And  luscious  fruit,  gold-hued  and  red, 
Through  all  the  canopy  of  green, 
Let  not  one  shaft  shoot  between. 

Birds  hung  and  swung,  green-robed  and 

red, 

Or  droop'd  in  curved  lines  dreamily, 
Rainbows  reversed,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Or  sang  low  hanging  overhead- 
Sang  low,  as  if  they  sang  and  slept, 
Sang  faint  like  some  far  waterfall, 
And  took  no  note  of  us  at  all, 
Though  nuts  that  in  the  way  were  spread 
Did  crush  and  crackle  where  we  stept. 

Wild  lilies,  tall  as  maidens  are, 
As  sweet  of  breath,  as  pearly  fair 
As  fair  as  faith,  as  pure  as  truth, 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


II 


Fell  thick  before  our  every  tread, 
In  fragrant  sacrifice  of  ruth. 
The  ripen'd  fruit  a  fragrance  shed 
And  hung  in  hand-reach  overhead, 
In  nest  of  blossoms  on  the  shoot, 
The  very  shoot  that  bore  the  fruit. 

How  ran  lithe    monkeys    through  the 

leaves! 
How  rush'd  they  through,  brown  clad  and 

blue, 

Like  shuttles  hurried  through  and  through 
The  threads  a  hasty  weaver  weaves! 

How  quick  they  cast  us  fruits  of  gold, 
Then  loosen'd  hand  and  all  foothold, 
And  hung  limp,  limber,  as  if  dead, 
Hung  low  and  listless  overhead; 
And  all  the  time  with  half-oped  eyes 
Bent  full  on  us  in  mute  surprise — 
Look'd  wisely,  too,  as  wise  hens  do 
That  watch  you  with  the  head  askew. 

The  long  day  through  from  blossom'd 

trees 

There  came  the  sweet  song  of  sweet  bees, 
With  chorus-tones  of  cockatoo 
That  slid  his  beak  along  the  bough, 
And  walk'd   and   talk'd    and    hung    and 

swung, 

In  crown  of  gold  and  coat  of  blue, 
The  wisest  fool  that  ever  sung, 
Or  wore  a  crown,  or  held  a  tongue. 

Oh!   when  we  broke  the  somber  wood 
And  pierced  at  last  the  sunny  plain, 
How  wild  and  still  with  wonder  stood 
The'proud  mustangs  with  banner'd  mane, 
And  necks  that  never  knew  a  rein, 
And  nostrils  lifted  high,  and  blown, 
Fierce  breathing  as  a  hurricane: 
Yet  by  their  leader  held  the  while 
In  solid  column,  square  and  file 
And  ranks  more  martial  than  our  own! 

Some  one  above  the  common  kind, 
Some  one  to  look  to,  lean  upon, 
I  think  is  much  a  woman's  mind; 
But  it  was  mine,  and  I  had  drawn 


A  rein  beside  the  chief  while  we 
Rode  through  the  forest  leisurely; 
When  he  grew  kind  and  question'd  me 
Of  kindred,  home,  and  home  affair, 
Of  how  I  came  to  wander  there, 
And  had  my  father  herds  and  land 
And  men  in  hundreds  at  command? 
At  which  I  silent  shook  my  head, 
Then,  timid,  met  his  eyes  and  said: 
"  Not  so.     Where  sunny  foothills  run 
Down  to  the  North  Pacific  sea, 
And  Willamette  meets  the  sun 
In  many  angles,  patiently 
My  father  tends  his  flocks  of  snow, 
And  turns  alone  the  mellow  sod 
And  sows  some  fields  not  over  broad, 
And  mourns  my  long  delay  in  vain, 
Nor  bids  one  serve-man  come  or  go; 
While  mother  from  her  wheel  or  churn, 
And  may  be  from  the  milking  shed, 
Oft  lifts  an  humble,  weary  head 
To  watch  and  wish  her  boy's  return 
Across  the  camas'  blossom'd  plain." 

He  held  his  bent  head  very  low, 
A  sudden  sadness  in  his  air; 
Then  turn'd  and  touch'd  my  yellow  hair 
And  tossed  the  long  locks  in  his  hand, 
Toy'd  with  them,  smiled,  and  let  them  go, 
Then  thrumm'd  about  his  saddle  bow 
As  thought  ran  swift  across  his  face; 
Then  turning  sudden  from  his  place, 
He  gave  some  short  and  quick  command. 
They  brought  the  best  steed  of  the  band, 
They  swung  a  rifle  at  my  side, 
He  bade  me  mount  and  by  him  ride, 
And  from  that  hour  to  the  end 
I  never  felt  the  need  of  friend. 

Far  in  the  wildest  quinine  wood 
We  found  a  city  old — so  old, 
Its  very  walls  were  turned  to  mould, 
And  stately  trees  upon  them  stood. 
No  history  has  mention'd  it, 
No  map  has  given  it  a  place; 
The  last  dim  trace  of  tribe  and  race— 
The  world's  forgetfulness  is  fit. 


12 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


It  held  one  structure  grand  and  moss'd, 
Mighty  as  any  castle  sung, 
And  old  when  oldest  Ind  was  young, 
With  threshold  Christian  never  cross'd; 
A  temple  builded  to  the  sun, 
Along  whose  somber  altar-stone 
Brown,  bleeding  virgins  had  been  strown 
Like  leaves,  when  leaves  are  crisp  and  dun, 
In  ages  ere  the  Sphinx  was  born, 
Or  Babylon  had  birth  or  morn. 
My  chief  led  up  the  marble  step — 
He  ever  led,  through  that  wild  land- 
When  down  the  stones,  with  double  hand 
To  his  machete,  a  Sun  priest  leapt, 
Hot  bent  to  barter  life  for  life. 
The  chieftain  drave  his  bowie  knife, 
Full  through  his  thick  and  broad  breast 
bone, 

And  broke  the  point  against  the  stone, 
The  dark  stone  of  the  temple  wall. 
I  saw  him  loose  his  hold  and  fall 
Full  length  with  head  hung  down  the  step; 
I  saw  run  down  a  ruddy  flood 
Of  smoking,  pulsing  human  blood. 
Then  from  the  wall  a  woman  crept 
And  kiss'd  the  gory  hands  and  face, 
And  smote  herself.    Then  one  by  one 
Some  dark  priests  crept  and  did  the  same, 
Then  bore  the  dead  man  from  the  place. 
Down  darken'd  aisles  the  brown  priests 

came, 

So  picture-like,  with  sandal'd   feet 
And  long,  gray,  dismal,  grass-wove  gowns, 
So  like  the  pictures  of  old  time, 
And  stood  all  still  and  dark  of  frowns, 
At  blood  upon  the  stone  and  street. 
So  we  laid  ready  hand  to  sword 
And  boldly  spoke  some  bitter  word; 
But  they  were  stubborn  still,  and  stood 
Fierce  frowning  as  a  winter  wood, 
And  mutt'ring  something  of  the  crime 
Of  blood  upon  a  temple  stone, 
As  if  the  first  that  it  had  known. 

We  strode  on  through  each  massive  door 
With  clash  of  steel  at  heel,  and  with 
Some  swords  all  red  and  ready  drawn. 


I  traced  the  sharp  edge  of  my  sword 
Along  both  marble  wall  and  floor 
For  crack  or  crevice;  there  was  none. 
From  one  vast  mount  of  marble  stone 
The  mighty  temple  had  been  cored 
By  nut-brown  children  of  the  sun, 
When  stars  were  newly  bright  and  blithe 
Of  song  along  the  rim  of  dawn, 
A  mighty  marble  monolith! 


in. 


Through  marches  through  the  mazy  wood 
And  may  be  through  too  much  of  blood, 
At  last  we  came  down  to  the  seas. 
A  city  stood,  white  wall'd,  and  brown 
With  age,  in  nest  of  orange  trees; 
And  this  we  won  and  many  a  town 
And  rancho  reaching  up  and  down, 
Then  rested  in  the  red-hot  days 
Beneath  the  blossom'd  orange  trees, 
Made  drowsy  with  the  drum  of  bees, 
And  drank  in  peace  the  south-sea  breeze, 
Made  sweet  with  sweeping  boughs  of  bays. 

Well!  there  were  maidens,  shy  at  first, 
And  then,  ere  long,  not  over  shy, 
Yet  pure  of  soul  and  proudly  chare. 
No  love  on  earth  has  such  an  eye! 
No  land  there  is,  is  bless'd  or  curs'd 
With  such  a  limb  or  grace  of  face, 
Or  gracious  form,  or  genial  air! 
In  all  the  bleak  North-land  not  one 
Hath  been  so  warm  of  soul  to  me 
As  coldest  soul  by  that  warm  sea, 
Beneath  the  bright  hot  centred  sun. 

No  lands  where  northern  ices  are 
Approach,  or  ever  dare  compare 
With  warm  loves  born  beneath  the  sun — 
The  one  the  cold  white  steady  star, 
The  lifted  shifting  sun  the  one. 
I  grant  you  fond,  I  grant  you  fair, 
I  grant  you  honor  trust  and  truth, 
And  years  as  beautiful  as  youth, 
And  many  years  beneath  the  sun, 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


And  faith  as  fix'd  as  any  star; 

But  all  the  North-land  hath  not  one 

So  warm  of  soul  as  sun-maids  are. 

I  was  but  in  my  boyhood  then,— 
I  count  my  fingers  over,  so, 
And  find  it  years  and  years  ago, 
And  I  am  scarcely  yet  of  men. 
But  I  was  tall  and  lithe  and  fair, 
With  rippled  tide  of  yellow  hair, 
And  prone  to  mellowness  of  heart, 
While  she  was  tawny-red  like  wine, 
With  black  hair  boundless  as  the  night. 
As  for  the  rest  I  knew  my  part, 
At  least  was  apt,  and  willing  quite 
To  learn,  to  listen,  and  incline 
To  teacher  warm  and  wise  as  mine. 

O  bright,  bronzed  maidens  of  the  Sun! 
So  fairer  far  to  look  upon 
Than  curtains  of  the  Solomon, 
Or  Kedar's  tents,  or  any  one, 
Or  any  thing  beneath  the  Sun! 
What  follow'd  then  ?  What  has  been  done  ? 
And  said,  and  writ,  and  read,  and  sung? 
What  will  be  writ  and  read  again, 
While  love  is  life,  and  life  remain? — 
While  maids  will   heed,   and   men   have 
tongue? 

What  follow'd  then?    But  let  that  pass. 
I  hold  one  picture  in  my  heart, 
Hung  curtaiu'd,  and  not  any  part 
Of  all  its  dark  tint  ever  has 
Been  look'd  upon  by  any  one 
Beneath  the  broad  all-seeing  sun. 

Love  well  who  will,  love  wise  who  can, 
But  love,  be  loved,  for  God  is  love; 
Love  pure,  as  cherubim  above; 
Love  maids,  and  hate  not  any  man. 
Sit  as  sat  we  by  orange  tree, 
Beneath  the  broad  bough  and  grape-vine 
Top-tangled  in  the  tropic  shine, 
Close  face  to  face,  close  to  the  sea, 
And  full  of  the  red-centred  sun, 
With  grand  sea-songs  upon  the  soul, 


Roll'd  melody  on  melody, 

As  echoes  of  deep  organ's  roll, 

And  love,  nor  question  any  one. 

If  God  is  love,  is  love  not  God  ? 
As  high  priests  say,  let  prophets  sing, 
Without  reproach  or  reckoning; 
This  much  1  say,  knees  knit  to  sod, 
And  low  voice  lifted,  questioning. 

Let  hearts  be  pure  and  strong  and.  true, 
Let  lips  be  luscious  and  blood-red, 
Let  earth  in  gold  be  garmented 
And  tented  in  her  tent  of  blue. 
Let  goodly  rivers  glide  between 
Their  leaning  willow  walls  of  green, 
Let  all  things  be  fill'd  of  the  sun, 
And  full  of  warm  winds  of  the  sea, 
And  I  beneath  my  vine  and  tree 
Take  rest,  nor  war  with  any  one; 
Then  I  will  thank  God  with  full  cause, 
Say  this  is  well,  is  as  it  was. 

Let  lips  be  red,  for  God  has  said 
Love  is  as  one  gold-garmented, 
And  made  them  so  for  such  a  time. 
Therefore  let  lips  be  red,  therefore 
Let  love  be  ripe  in  ruddy  prime, 
Let  hope  beat  high,  let  hearts  be  true, 
And  you  be  wise  thereat,  and  you 
Drink  deep  and  ask  not  any  more. 

Let  red  lips  lift,  proud  curl'd  to  kiss, 
And  round  limbs  lean  and  raise  and  reach 
In  love  too  passionate  for  speech, 

Too  full  of  blessedness  and  bliss 
For  anything  but  this  and  this; 
Let  luscious  lips  lean  hot  to  kiss 
And  swoon  in  love,  while  all  the  air 
Is  redolent  with  balm  of  trees, 
And  mellow  with  the  song  of  bees, 
While  birds  sit  singing  everywhere — 
And  you  will  have  not  any  more 
Than  I  in  boyhood,  by  that  shore 
Of  olives,  had  in  years  of  yore. 

Let  the  unclean  think  things  unclean; 
I  swear  tip-toed,  with  lifted  hands, 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


That  we  were  pure  as  sea-wash'd  sands, 
That  not  one  coarse  thought  came  between; 
Believe  or  disbelieve  who  will, 
Unto  the  pure  all  things  are  pure; 
As  for  the  rest,  I  can  endure 
Alike  your  good  will  or  their  ill. 

Aye!  she  was  rich  in  blood  and  gold — 
More  rich  in  love,  grown  over-bold 
From  its  own  consciousness  of  strength. 
How  warm!     Oh,  not  for  any  cause 
Could  I  declare  how  warm  she  was, 
In  her  brown  beauty  and  hair's  length. 
We  loved  in  the  sufficient  sun, 
We  lived  in  elements  of  fire, 
For  love  is  fire  in  fierce  desire; 
Yet  lived  as  pure  as  priest  and  nun. 

We  lay  slow  rocking  by  the  bay 
In  slim  canoe  beneath  the  crags 
Thick-topp'd  with  palm,    like    sweeping 

flags 

Between  us  and  the  burning  day. 
The  alligator's  head  lay  low 
Or  lifted  from  his  rich  rank  fern, 
And  watch'd  us  and  the  tide  by  turn, 
As  we  slow  cradled  to  and  fro. 

And  slow  we  cradled  on  till  night, 
And  told  the  old  tale,  overtold, 
As  misers  in  recounting  gold 
Each  time  to  take  a  new  delight. 
With  her  pure  passion-given  grace 
She  drew  her  warm  self  close  to  me; 
And  her  two  brown  hands  on  my  knee, 
And  her  two  black  eyes  in  my  face, 
She  then  grew  sad  and  guess'd  at  ill, 
And  in  the  future  seem'd  to  see 
With  woman's  ken  of  prophecy; 
Yet  proffer 'd  her  devotion  still. 
And  plaintive  so  she  gave  a  sign, 
A  token  cut  of  virgin  gold, 
That  all  her  tribe  should  ever  hold 
Its  wearer  as  some  one  divine, 
Nor  touch  him  with  a  hostile  hand. 
And  I  in  turn  gave  her  a  blade, 
A  dagger,  worn  as  well  by  maid 


As  man,  in  that  half  lawless  land. 

It  had  a  massive  silver  hilt, 

It  had  a  keen  and  cunning  blade, 

A  gift  by  chief  and  comrades  made 

For  reckless  blood  at  Rivas  spilt. 

"  Show  this, "  said  I,  "  too  well  'tis  known, 

And  worth  a  hundred  lifted  spears, 

Should  ill  beset  your  sunny  years; 

There  is  not  one  in  Walker's  band, 

But  at  the  sight  of  this  alone, 

Will  reach  a  brave  and  ready  hand, 

And  make  your  right,  or  wrong,  his  own," 

IV. 

Love  while  'tis  day;  night  cometh  soon, 
Wherein  no  man  or  maiden  may; 
Love  in  the  strong  young  prime  of  day; 
Drink  drunk  with  love  in  ripe  red  noon, 
Ked  noon  of  love  and  life  and  sun; 
Walk  in  love's  light  as  in  sunshine, 
Drink  in  that  sun  as  drinking  wine, 
Drink  swift,  nor  question  any  one; 
For  fortunes  change,  as  man  or  moon. 
And  wane  like  warm  full  days  of  June. 

Oh  Love,  so  fair  of  promises. 
Bend  here  thy  brow,  blow  here  thy  kiss, 
Bend  here  thy  bow  above  the  storm 
But  once,  if  only  this  once  more. 
Comes  there  no  patient  Christ  to  save, 
Touch  and  re-animate  thy  form 
Long  three  days  dead  and  in  the  grave ! 
Spread  here  thy  silken  net  of  Jet; 
Since  fortunes  change,  turn  and  forget, 
Since  man  must  fall  for  some  sharp  sin, 
Be  thou  the  pit  that  I  fall  in; 
I  seek  no  safer  fall  than  this. 
Since  man  must  die  for  some  dark  sin, 
Blind  leading  blind,  let  come  to  this, 
And  my  death  crime  be  one  deep  kiss. 

v. 

Ill  comes  disguised  in  many  forms: 
Fair  winds  are  but  a  prophecy 
Of  foulest  winds  full  soon  to  be— 
The  brighter  these,  the  blacker  they; 
The  clearest  night  has  darkest  day, 


WITH    WALKER    IN   NICARAGUA. 


And  brightest  days  bring  blackest  storms. 
There  came  reverses  to  our  arms; 
I  saw  the  signal-light's  alarms 
All  night  red-crescenting  the  bay. 
The  foe  poured  down  a  flood  next  day 
As  strong  as  tides  when  tides  are  high, 
And  drove  us  bleeding  to  the  sea, 
In  such  wild  haste  of  flight  that  we 
Had  hardly  time  to  arm  and  fly. 

Blown  from  the  shore,  borne  far  at  sea, 
I  lifted  my  two  hands  on  high 
With  wild  soul  plashing  to  the  sky, 
And  cried,  "  O  more  than  crowns  to  me, 
Farewell  at  last  to  love  and  thee!" 
I  walked  the  deck,  I  kiss'd  my  hand 
Back  to  the  far  and  fading  shore, 
And  bent  a  knee  as  to  implore, 
Until  the  last  dark  head  of  land 
Slid  down  behind  the  dimpled  sea. 

At  last  I  sank  in  troubled  sleep, 
A  very  child,  rock'd  by  the  deep, 
Sad  qiiestioning  the  fate  of  her 
Before  the  savage  conqueror. 

The  loss  of  comrades,  power,  place, 
A  city  wall'd,  cool  shaded  ways, 
Cost  me  no  care  at  all;  somehow 
I  only  saw  her  sad  brown  face, 
And— I  was  younger  then  than  now. 

Red  flashed -the  sun  across  the  deck, 
Slow  flapped  the  idle  sails,  and  slow 
The  black  ship  cradled  to  and  fro. 
Afar  my  city  lay,  a  speck 
Of  white  against  a  line  of  blue; 
Around,  half  lounging  on  the  deck, 
Some  comrades  chatted  two  by  two. 
I  held  a  new-fill'd  glass  of  wine, 
And  with  the  Mate  talk'd  as  in  play 
Of  fierce  events  of  yesterday, 
To  coax  his  light  life  into  mine. 

He  jerked  the  wheel,  as  slow  he  said, 
Low  laughing  with  averted  head, 
And  so,  half  sad:     "  You  bet  they'll  fight; 
They  follow'd  in  canim,  canoe, 
A  perfect  fleet,  that  on  the  blue 


Lay  dancing  till  the  mid  of  night. 
Would  you  believe!  one  little  cuss" — 
(He  turned  his  stout  head  slow  sidewise, 
And  'neath  his  hat-rim  took  the  skies) — 
"  In  petticoats  did  follow  us 
The  livelong  night,  and  at  the  dawn 
Her  boat  lay  rocking  in  the  lee, 
Scarce  one  short  pistol-shot  from  me." 
This  said  the  mate,  half  mournfully, 
Then  peck'd  at  us;  for  he  had  drawn, 
By  bright  light  heart  and  homely  wit, 
A  knot  of  men  around  the  wheel, 
Which  he  stood  whirling  like  a  reel, 
For  the  still  ship  reck'd  not  of  it. 

"  And  where's  she  now? "  one  careless 

said, 

With  eyes  slow  lifting  to  the  brine, 
Swift  swept  the  instant  far  by  mine-; 
The  bronzed  mate  listed,  shook  his  head, 
Spirted  a  stream  of  ambier  wide 
Across  and  over  the  ship  side, 
Jerk'd  at  the  wheel,  and  slow  replied: 

"She  had  a  dagger  in  her  hand, 
She  rose,  she  raised  it,  tried  to  stand, 
But  fell,  and  so  upset  herself; 
Yet  still  the  poor  brown  savage  elf, 
Each  time  the  long  light  wave  would  toss 
And  lift  her  form  from  out  the  sea, 
Would  shake  a  sharp  bright  blade  at  me. 
With  rich  hilt  chased  a  cunning  cross. 
At  last  she  sank,  but  still  the  same 
She  shook  her  dagger  in  the  air, 
As  if  to  still  defy  and  dare, 
And  sinking  seem'd  to  call  your  name." 

I  let  my  wine  glass  crashing  fall, 
I  rush'd  across  the  deck,  and  all 
The  sea  I  swept  and  swept  again, 
With  lifted  hand,  with  eye  and  glass, 
But  all  was  idle  and  in  vain. 
I  saw  a  red-bill'd  sea-gull  pass, 
A  petrel  sweeping  round  and  round, 
I  heard  the  far  white  sea-surf  sound, 
But  no  sign  could  I  hear  or  see 
Of  one  so  more  than  seas  to  me. 


i6 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


I  cursed  the  ship,  the  shore,  the  sea, 
The  brave  brown  mate,  the  bearded  men; 
I  had  a  fever  then,  and  then 
Ship,  shore  and  sea  were  one  to  me; 
And  weeks  we  on  the  dead  waves  lay, 
And  I  more  truly  dead  than  they. 
At  last  some  rested  on  an  isle; 
The  few  strong-breasted,  with  a  smile, 
Returning  to  the  hostile  shore, 
Scarce  counting  of  the  pain  or  cost, 
Scarce  recking  if  they  won  or  lost; 
They  sought  but  action,  ask'd  110  more; 
They  counted  life  but  as  a  game, 
With  full  per  cent,  against  them,  and 
Staked  all  upon  a  single  hand, 
And  lost  or  won,  content  the  same. 

I  never  saw  my  chief  again, 
I  never  sought  again  the  shore, 
Or  saw  my  white- walled  city  more. 
I  could  not  bear  the  more  than  pain 
At  sight  of  blossom'd  orange  trees, 
Or  blended  song  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  sweeping  shadows  of  the  palm 
Or  spicy  breath  of  bay  and  balm. 
And,  striving  to  forget  the  while, 
I  wandered  through  a  dreary  isle, 
Here  black  with  juniper,  and  there 
Made  white  with  goats  in  shaggy  coats, 
The  only  things  that  anywhere 
We  found  with  life  in  all  the  land, 
Save  birds  that  ran  long-bill'd  and  brown, 
Long  legg'd  and  still  as  shadows  are, 
Like  dancing  shadows  up  and  down 
The  sea-rim  on  the  swelt'ring  sand. 

The  warm  sea  laid  his  dimpled  face, 
With  all  his  white  locks  smoothed  in  place, 
As  if  asleep  against  the  land; 
Great  turtles  slept  upon  his  breast, 
As  thick  as  eggs  in  any  nest; 
I  could  have  touch'd  them  with  my  hand. 

VI. 

I  would  some  things  were  dead  and  hid, 
Well  dead  and  buried  deep  as  hell, 
With  recollection  dead  as  well, 


And  resurrection  God  forbid. 
They  irk  me  with  their  weary  spell 
Of  fascination,  eye  to  eye. 
And  hot  mesmeric  serpent  hiss, 
Through  all  the  dull  eternal  days. 
Let  them  turn  by,  go  on  their  ways, 
Let  them  depart  or  let  me  die; 
For  life  is  but  a  beggar's  lie, 
And  as  for  death,  I  grin  at  it; 
I  do  not  care  one  whiff  or  whit 
Whether  it  be  or  that  or  this. 

I  give  my  hand;  the  world  is  wide; 
Then  farewell  memories  of  yore, 
Between  us  let  strife  be  no  more; 
Turn  as  you  choose  to  either  side; 
Say,  Fare-you-well,  shake  hands  and  say — 
Speak  fair,  and  say  with  stately  grace, 
Hand  clutching  hand,  face  bent  to  face — 
Farewell  forever  and  a  day. 

O  passion-toss'd  and  piteous  past, 
Part  now,  part  well,  part  wide  apart, 
As  ever  ships  on  ocean  slid 
Down,  down  the  sea,  hull,  sail,  and  mast: 
And  in  the  album  of  my  heart 
Let  hide  the  pictures  of  your  face, 
With  other  pictures  in  their  place, 
Slid  over  like  a  coffin's  lid. 

VII. 

The  days  and  grass  grow  long  together; 
They  now  fell  short  and  crisp  again, 
And  all  the  fair  face  of  the  main 
Grew  dark  and  wrinkled  as  the  weather. 
Through  all  the  summer  sun's  decline 
Fell  news  of  triumphs  and  defeats, 
Of  hard  advances,  hot  retreats — 
Then  days  and  days  and  not  a  line. 

At  last  one  night  they  came.     I  knew 
Ere  yet  the  boat  had  touched  the  land 
That  all  was  lost;  they  were  so  few 
I  near  could  count  them  on  one  hand; 
But  he,  the  leader,  led  no  more. 
The  proud  chief  still  disdain'd  to  fly, 
But  like  one  wreck'd,  clung  to  the  shore. 
And  struggled  on,  and  struggling  fell 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


From  power  to  a  prison-cell, 
And  only  left  that  cell  to  die. 

My  recollection,  like  a  ghost, 
Goes  from  this  sea  to  that  sea-side, 
Goes  and  returns  as  turns  the  tide, 
Then  turns  again  unto  the  coast. 
I  know  not  which  I  mourn  the  most, 
My  chief  or  my  un wedded  wife. 
The  one  was  as  the  lordly  sun, 
To  joy  in,  bask  in,  and  admire; 
The  peaceful  moon  was  as  the  one, 
To  love,  to  look  to,  and  desire; 
And  both  a  part  of  my  young  life. 

VIII. 

Years  after,  shelter'd  from  the  sun 

Beneath  a  Sacramento  bay, 

A  black  Muchacho  by  me  lay 

Along  the  long  grass  crisp  and  dun, 

His  brown  mule  browsing  by  his  side, 

And  told  with  all  a  Peon's  pride 

How  he  once  fought;  how  long  and  well, 

Broad  breast  to  breast,  red  hand  to  hand, 

Against  a  foe  for  his  fair  land, 

And  how  the  fierce  invader  fell; 

And,  artless,  told  me  how  he  died: 

How  walked  he  from  the  prison-wall 
Dress'd  like  some  prince  for  a  parade, 
And  made  no  note  of  man  or  maid, 
But  gazed  out  calmly  over  all. 
He  look'd  far  off,  half  paused,  and  then 
Above  the  mottled  sea  of  men 
He  kiss'd  his  thin  hand  to  the  sun; 
Then  smiled  so  proudly  none  had  known 
But  he  was  stepping  to  a  throne, 
Yet  took  no  note  of  any  one. 

A  nude  brown  beggar  Peon  child, 
Encouraged  as  the  captive  smiled, 
Look'd  up,  half  scared,  half  pitying; 
He  stopp'd,  he  caught  it  from  the  sands, 
Put  bright  coins  in  its  two  brown  hands, 
Then  strode  on  like  another  king. 

Two  deep,  a  musket's  length,  they  stood 
A-front,  in  sandals,  nude,  and  dun 


As  death  and  darkness  wove  in  one, 
Their  thick  lips  thirsting  for  his  blood. 
He  took  each  black  hand  one  by  one, 
And,  smiling  with  a  patient  grace, 
Forgave  them  all  and  took  his  place. 

He  bared  his  broad  brow  to  the  sun, 

Gave  one  long,  last  look  to  the  sky, 

The  white  wing'd  clouds  that  hurried  by, 

The  olive  hills  in  orange  hue; 

A  last  list  to  the  cockatoo 

That  hung  by  beak  from  mango-bough 

Hard  by,  and  hung  and  sung  as  though 

He  never  was  to  sing  again, 

Hung  all  red-crown'd  and  robed  in  green, 

With  belts  of  gold  and  blue  between. — 

A  bow,  a  touch  of  heart,  a  pall 
Of  purple  smoke,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  raiment  rolled  in  blood, 
A  face  in  dust  and — that  was  all. 

Success  had  made  him  more  than  king; 
Defeat  made  him  the  vilest  thing 
In  name,  contempt  or  hate  can  bring; 
So  much  the  leaded  dice  of  war 
Do  make  or  mar  of  character. 

Speak  ill  who  will  of  him,  he  died 
In  all  disgrace;  say  of  the  dead 
His  heart  was  black,  his  hands  were  red- 
Say  this  much,  and  be  satisfied; 
Gloat  over  it  all  undenied. 
I  simply  say  he  was  my  friend 
"When  strong  of  hand  and  fair  of  fame: 
Dead  and  disgraced,  I  stand  the  same 
i    To  him,  and  so  shall  to  the  end. 

I  lay  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
KecalPd  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levell'd  sand, 
Unshelter'd  from  the  tropic  sun, 
And  now  of  all  he  knew  not  one 


i8 


WITH    WALKER    IN    NICARAGUA. 


Will  speak  him  fair  in  that  far  land. 
Perhaps  'twas  this  that  made  me  seek, 
Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide; 
A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  siding  with  the  helpless  weak. 

A  palm  not  far  held  out  a  hand, 
Hard  by  a  long  green  bamboo  swung, 
And  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quiver'd  like  a  willow  wand; 
Perch'd  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hang, 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf, 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sang 
A  low,  sad  song  of  temper'd  grief. 

No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone 
But  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen; 
It  stood  in  sacred  sands  alone, 
Flat-palm'd  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears; 
One  bloom  of  crimson  crown'd  its  head, 


A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 
Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 

In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipp'd  and  pearly  red; 
I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 
For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 
The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 

0  shell!  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  loud  and  birds  be  still, 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee! 

I  said  some  things  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whisper'd  in  the  dim  sea-sound, 
And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  yet  I  could  not  well  do  more: 

1  turn'd  me  down  the  olive  shore, 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 

LONDON,  1871. 


I  first  wrote  this  poem  for  John  Brown.    You  can  see  John  Brown  of   Harper's   Ferry  in   his  bearing,   for 
Walker  was  not  of  imposing  presence;  also  in  his  tenderness  to  the  colored  child  on  his  way  to  death.     But  when 
about  to  publish  I  saw  a  cruel  account  of  Gen.  Walker  and  his  grave  at  Truxillo,   Honduras,  in  a  London  news 
paper.     It  stated,   among  other  mean  things,  that  a  board  stood  at  the  head  of  his  grave  with  this  inscription: 
"Here  lies  buried  W.  W., 
Who  never  more  will  trouble  you,  trouble  you." 

I  by  good  fortune  had  ready  for  my  new  book  an  account  of  a  ride  through  a  Central  American  forest. 
Putting  this  and  the  John  Brown  poem  together  in  haste  and  anger,  and  working  them  over,  I  called  the 
new  poem  "  With  Walker  in  Nicaragua." 

I  had  known  Walker  in  California,  as  a  brave  and  gentle  man  of  books.  After  I  had  been  hurt  a  second 
time  in  the  Indian  wars,  Gen.  Crook,  with  whom  I  had  been  as  guide  and  interpreter,  sent  me  to  San  Francisco 
to  be  treated,  where  an  officer  asked  me  to  go  East  with  him  to  finish  school,  and  I  gladly  set  out  with  him,  as 
there  was  a  possibility  of  West  Point  ahead  of  me.  We  found  trouble  between  the  transit  ship  line  and  Gen. 
Walker,  and  we  could  not  pass  through  Nicaragua.  I  should  like,  were  it  possible,  to  say  how  much  I  owe  to 
these  army  officers  of  the  remote  border.  They  were,  many  of  them,  years  after,  the  heroes  of  the  Civil  war.  Yet 
were  they  ever,  even  there  in  the  most  savage  wilderness  the  gentlest  of  gentle  men.  With  such  men  on  the  one 
hand  and  the  wild  red  men  on  the  other  I  touched  and  took  in  at  once  the  very  extremes  of  existence,  and  the 
stream  of  life,  even  this  early,  flowed  swift  and  strong  and  deep  and  wide.  See  here  again  how  fortunate  were  my 
misfortunes !  For  had  it  not  been  for  my  many  cruel  wounds  in  Indian  wars  these  men,  busy  with  graver  things, 
would  not  have  been  drawn  to  their  "Boy  veteran"  and  helped  him  along  with  his  books  and  their  sympathy  and 
their  better  sense  in  so  many  ways.  And  how  true  they  were,  and  still  are,  the  very  few  survivors,  as  witness,  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century  after  the  old  Modoc  days,  in  their  loyalty  and  love  they  made  me  a  comrade  in  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac.  Truly,  as  Bayard  Taylor  says: 

"The  bravest  are  the  tenderest; 
The  loving  are  the  daring." 

The  officer  returned  but  I  stayed  with  Walker  a  little  time  till  a  ship  from  Chile  going  to  the  Columbia  for 
lumber  took  me  away.  And  so,  knowing  how  good  and  dauntless  he  was,  I  determined  to  defend  the  grave  of 
my  dead,  even  though  it  should  wreck  my  book  and  fortunes.  For  it  was  the  English  who,  indirectly,  put  him  to 
death,  and  now  to  heap  disgrace  upon  his  lowly  grave,  it  was  to  me  intolerable,  and  made  me  reckless  of  results. 
However,  the  British  showed  their  greatness  by  treating  me  all  the  better  for  hitting  back  hard  as  I  could  for 
my  helpless  dead.  I  was  teaching  school  in  Washington  Territory  when  the  story  of  John  Brown's  raid  and  death 
reached  me  and  then  and  there  I  began  this  poem. 


THE    TALE    OF    THE    TALL,    ALCALDE. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 

Shadows  that  shroud  the   to-morrow, 
Glists  from  the  life  that's   within, 

Traces  of  pain  and  of  sorrow, 
And  maybe  a  trace  of  sin, 

Heachings  for  God  in  the  darkness, 
And  for — what  should  have  been. 

Stains  from  the  gall  and  the  wormwood, 

Memories  bitter  like  myrrh, 
A  sad  brown  face  in  a  fir  wood, 

Blotches  of  heart's  blood  here, 
But  never  the  sound  of  a  tvailing, 

Never  the  sign  of  a  tear. 


Where  mountains  repose  in   their   blue- 
ness, 

Where  the  sun  first  lands  in  his  newness, 
And  marshals  his  beams  and  his  lances, 
Ere  down  to  the  vale  he  advances 
With  visor  erect,  and  rides  swiftly 
On  the  terrible  night  in  his  way, 
And  slays  him,  and,  dauntless  and  deftly, 
Hews  out  the  beautiful  day 
With  his  flashing  sword  of  silver, — 
Lay  nestled  the  town  of  Renalda, 
Far  famed  for  its  stately  Alcalde, 
The  iron  judge  of  the  mountain  mine, 
With  heart  like  the  heart  of  woman, 
Humanity  more  than  human; — 
Far  famed  for  its  gold  and  silver, 
Fair  maids  and  its  mountain  wine. 

The  feast  was  full,  and  the  guests  afire, 
The  shaven  priest  and  the  portly  squire, 
The  solemn  judge  and  the  smiling  dandy, 
The  duke  and  the  don  and  the  comman 
dant  e, 

All,  save  one,  shouted  or  sang  divine, 
Sailing  in  one  great  sea  of  wine; 
Till  roused,  red-crested  knight  Chanticleer 
Answer'd  and  echo'd  their  song  and  cheer, 


Some  boasted   of   broil,    encounter,  in 

battle, 
Some  boasted  of  maidens  most   cleverly 

won, 

Boasted  of  duels  most  valiantly  done, 
Of  leagues  of  land  and  of  herds  of  cattle, 
These  men  at  the  feast  up  in  fair  Renalda. 
All  boasted  but  one,  the  calm  Alcalde: 
Though  hard  they  press'd  from  first  of 

the  feast, 
Press'd   commandante,   press'd  poet  and 

priest, 

And  steadily  still  an  attorney  press'd, 
With  lifted  glass  and  his  face  aglow, 
Heedless  of  host  and  careless  of  guest — 
"  A  tale!  the  tale  of  your  life,  so  ho! 
For  not  one  man  in  all  Mexico 
Can  trace  your  history  two  decade." 
A  hand  on  the  rude  one's  lip  was  laid: 
"  Sacred,  my  son,"  the  priest  went  on, 
"  Sacred  the  secrets  of  every  one, 
Inviolate  as  an  altar-stone. 
Yet  what  in  the  life  of  one  who  must 
Have  lived  a  life  that  is  half  divine — 
Have  been  so  pure  to  be  so  just, 
What  can  there  be,  O  advocate, 
In  the  life  of  one  so  desolate 


20 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


Of  luck  with  matron,  or  love  with  maid, 

Midnight  revel  or  escapade, 

To  stir  the  wonder  of  men  at  wine  ? 

But    should    the    Alcalde    choose,    you 

know," — 

(And  here  his  voice  fell  soft  and  low, 
As  he  set  his  wine-horn  in  its  place, 
And  look'd  in  the  judge's  careworn  face) — 
"  To  weave  us  a  tale  that  points  a  moral, 
Out  of  his  vivid  imagination, 
Of  lass  or  of  love,  or  lover's  quarrel, 
Naught  of  his  fame  or  name  or  station 
Shall  lose  in  luster  by  its  relation." 

Softly  the  judge  set  down  his  horn, 
Kindly  look'd  on  the  priest  all  shorn, 
And  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  the  advocate 
With  a  touch  of  pity,  but  none  of  hate; 
Then  look'd  he  down  in  the  brimming 

horn, 
Half  defiant  and  half  forlorn. 

Was  it  a  tear?  Was  it  a  sigh? 
Was  it  a  glance  of  the  priest's  black  eye? 
Or  was  it  the  drunken  revel-cry 
That  smote  the  rock  of  his  frozen  heart 
And  forced  his  pallid  lips  apart  ? 
Or  was  it  the  weakness  like  to  woman 
Yearning  for  sympathy 
Through  the  dark  years, 
Spurning  the  secrecy, 
Burning  for  tears, 
Proving  him  human, — 
As  he  said  to  the  men  of  the  silver  mine, 
With  their  eyes  held  up  as  to  one  divine, 
With  his  eyes  held  down  to  his  untouch'd 
wine: 

"It  might  have  been  where  moonbeams 

kneel 

At  night  beside  some  rugged  steep; 
It  might  have  been  where  breakers  reel, 
Or  mild  waves  cradle  one  to  sleep; 
It  might  have  been  in  peaceful  life,, 
Or  mad  tumult  and  storm  and  strife, 
I  drew  my  breath;  it  matters  not. 
A  silver'd  head,  a  sweetest  cot, 


A  sea  of  tamarack  and  pine, 

A  peaceful  stream,  a  balmy  clime, 

A  cloudless  sky,  a  sister's  smile, 

A  mother's  love  that  sturdy  Time 

Has  strengthen'd  as  he  strengthens  wine, 

Are  mine,  are  with  me  all  the  while, 

Are  hung  in  memory's  sounding  halls, 

Are  graven  on  her  glowing  walls. 

But  rage,  nor  rack,  nor  wrath  of  man, 

Nor  prayer  of  priest,  nor  price,  nor  ban 

Can  wring  from  me  their  place  or  name, 

Or  why,  or  when,  or  whence  I  came; 

Or  why  I  left  that  childhood  home, 

A  child  of  form  yet  old  of  soul, 

And  sought  the  wilds  where  tempests  roll 

O'er  snow  peaks  white  as  driven  foam. 

"  Mistaken  and  misunderstood, 
I  sought  a  deeper  wild  and  wood, 
A  girlish  form,  a  childish  face, 
A  wild  waif  drifting  from  place  to  place. 

"  Oh  for  the  skies  of  rolling  blue, 
The  balmy  hours  when  lovers  woo, 
When  the  moon  is  doubled  as  in  desire, 
And  the  lone  bird  cries  in  his  crest  of  tire, 
Like  vespers  calling  the  soul  to  bliss 
In  the  blessed  love  of  the  life  above, 
Ere  it  has  taken  the  stains  of  this! 

"  The  world  afar,  yet  at  my  feet, 
Went  steadily  and  sternly  on; 
I  almost  fancied  I  could  meet 
The  crush  and  bustle  of  the  street, 
When  from  my  mountain  I  look'd  down. 
And  deep  down  in  the  canon's  mouth 
The  long-torn  ran  and  pick-ax  rang, 
And  pack-trains  coming  from  the  south 
Went  stringing  round  the  mountain  high 
In  long  gray  lines,  as  wild  geese  fly, 
While  mul'teers  shouted  hoarse  and  high, 
And  dusty,  dusky  mul'teers  sang — 
'  Senora  with  the  liquid  eye! 
No  floods  can  ever  quench  the  flame, 
Or  frozen  snows  my  passion  tame, 
O  Juanna  with  the  coal-black  eye! 
O  senorita.  bide  a  bye!' 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


21 


"Environed  by  a  mountain  wall, 
That  caped  in  snowy  turrets  stood; 
So  fierce,  so  terrible,  so  tall, 
It  never  yet  had  been  defiled 
By  track  or  trail,  save  by  the  wild 
Free  children  of  the  wildest  wood; 
An  unkiss'd  virgin  at  my  feet, 
Lay  my  pure,  hallow'd,  dreamy  vale, 
Where  breathed  the  essence  of  my  tale; 
Lone  dimple  in  the  mountain's  face, 
Lone  Eden  in  a  boundless  waste 
It  lay  so  beautiful!  so  sweet! 

"  There  in  the  sun's  decline  I  stood 
By  God's  form  wrought  in  pink  and  pearl, 
My  peerless,  dark-eyed  Indian  girl; 
And  gazed  out  from  a  fringe  of  wood, 
With  full-fed  soul  and  feasting  eyes, 
Upon  an  earthly  paradise. 
Inclining  to  the  south  it  lay, 
And  long  league's  southward  roll'd  away, 
Until  the  sable-feat  her 'd  pines 
And  tangled  boughs  and  amorous  vines 
Closed  like  besiegers  on  the  scene, 
The  while  the  stream  that  intertwined 
Had  barely  room  to  flow  between. 
It  was  unlike  all  other  streams, 
Save  those  seen  in  sweet  summer  dreams; 
For  sleeping  in  its  bed  of  snow, 
Nor  rock  nor  stone  was  ever  known, 
But  only  shining,  shifting  sands, 
Forever  sifted  by  nnseen  hands. 
It  curved,  it  bent  like  Indian  bow, 
And  like  an  arrow  darted  through, 
Yet  uttered  not  a  sound  nor  breath, 
Nor  broke  a  ripple  from  the  start; 
It  was  as  swift,  as  still  as  death, 
Yet  was  so  clear,  so  pure,  so  sweet, 
It  wound  its  way  into  your  heart 
As  through  the  grasses  at  your  feet. 

"  Once,    through    the    tall    untangled 

grass, 

I  saw  two  black  bears  careless  pass, 
And  in  the  twilight  turn  to  play; 
I  caught  my  rifle  to  my  face, 
She  raised  her  hand  with  quiet  grace 


And  said:  '  Not  so,  for  us  the  day, 
The  night  belongs  to  such  as  they.' 

"And    then    from    out    the    shadow'd 

wood 

The  antler'd  deer  came  stalking  down 
In  half  a  shot  of  where  I  stood; 
Then  stopp'd  and  stamp'd  impatiently, 
Then  shook  his  head  and  antlers  high, 
And  then  his  keen  horns  backward  threw 
Upon  his  shoulders  broad  and  brown, 
And  thrust  his  muzzle  in  the  air, 
Snuffd  proudly;  then  a  blast  he  blew 
As  if  to  say:  "No  danger  there." 
And  then  from  out  the  sable  wood 
His  mate  and  two  sweet  dappled  fawns 
Stole  forth,  and  by  the  monarch  stood, 
Such  bronzes,  as  on  kingly  lawns; 
Or  seen  in  picture,  read  in  tale. 
Then  he,  as  if  to  reassure 
The  timid,  trembling  and  demure, 
Again  his  antlers  backward  threw, 
Again  a  blast  defiant  blew, 
Then  led  them  proudly  down  the  vale. 

"  I  watch'd  the  forms  of  darkness  come 
Slow  stealing  from  their  sylvan  home, 
And  pierce  the  sunlight  drooping  low 
And  weary,  as  if  loth  to  go. 
Night  stain 'd  the  lances  as  he  bled, 
And,  bleeding  and  pursued,  he  fled 
Across  the  vale  into  the  wood. 
I  saw  the  tall  grass  bend  its  head 
Beneath  the  stately  martial  tread 
Of  Shades,  pursuer  and  pursued. 

"  'Behold  the  clouds,' Winnema  said, 
1  All  purple  with  the  blood  of  day; 
The  night  has  conquer'd  in  the  fray, 
The  shadows  live,  and  light  is  dead.' 

"  She  turn'd  to  Shasta  gracefully, 
Around  whose  hoar  and  mighty  head 
Still  roll'd  a  sunset  sea  of  red, 
While  troops  of  clouds  a  space  below 
Were  drifting  wearily  and  slow, 
As  seeking  shelter  for  the  night 


22 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


Like  weary  sea-birds  in  their  flight; 
Then  curved  her  right  arm  gracefully 
Above  her  brow,  and  bow'd  her  knee, 
And  chanted  in  an  unknown  tongue 
Words  sweeter  than  were  ever  sung. 

••  'And  what  means  this  ? » I  gently  said. 
1 1  prayed  to  God,  the  Yopitone, 
Who  dwells  on  yonder  snowy  throne,' 
She  softly  said  with  drooping  head; 
'  I  bow'd  to  God.    He  heard  my  prayer, 
I  felt  his  warm  breath  in  my  hair, 
He  heard  me  all  my  wishes  tell, 
For  God  is  good,  and  all  is  well.' 

"  The  dappled  and  the  dimpled  skies, 
The  timid  stars,  the  spotted  moon, 
All  smiled  as  sweet  as  sun  at  noon. 
Her  eyes  were  like  the  rabbit's  eyes, 
Her  mien,  her  manner,  just  as  mild, 
And  though  a  savage  war-chief's  child, 
She  would  not  harm  the  lowliest  worm. 
And,  though  her  beaded  foot  was  firm, 
And  though  her  airy  step  was  true, 
She  would  not  crush  a  drop  of  dew. 

"  Her  love  was  deeper  than  the  sea, 
And  stronger  than  the  tidal  rise, 
And  clung  in  all  its  strength  to  me. 
A  face  like  hers  is  never  seen 
This  side  the  gates  of  paradise, 
Save  in  some  Indian  Summer  scene, 
And  then  none  ever  sees  it  twice— 
Is  seen  but  once,  and  seen  no  more, 
Seen  but  to  tempt  the  skeptic  soul, 
And  show  a  sample  of  the  whole 
That  Heaven  has  in  store. 

"You  might  have  plucked  beams  from 

the  moon, 

Or  torn  the  shadow  from  the  pine 
When  on  its  dial  track  at  noon, 
But  not  have  parted  us  one  hour, 
She  was  so  wholly,  truly  mine. 
And  life  was  one  unbroken  dream 
Of  purest  bliss  and  calm  delight, 
A  flow'ry-shored,  untroubled  stream 


Of  sun  and  song,  of  shade  and  bower, 
A  full-moon'd  serenading  night. 

'*  Sweet  melodies  were  in  the  air, 
And  tame  birds  caroll'd  everywhere. 
I  listened  to  the  lisping  grove 
And  cooing  pink-eyed  turtle  dove, 
I  loved  her  with  the  holiest  love; 
Believing  with  a  brave  belief 
That  everything  beneath  the  skies 
Was  beautiful  and  born  to  love, 
That  man  had  but  to  love,  believe, 
And  earth  would  be  a  paradise 
As  beautiful  as  that  above. 
My  goddess,  Beauty,  I  adored, 
Devoutly,  fervid,  her  alone; 
My  Priestess,  Love,  unceasing  pour'd 
Pure  incense  on  her  altar-stone. 

"  I  carved  my  name  in  coarse  design 
Once  on  a  birch  down  by  the  way, 
At  which  she  gazed,  as  she  would  say, 
'  What  does  this  say?    What  is  this  sign ?' 
And  when  I  gaily  said,  '  Some  day 
Some  one  will  come  and  read  my  name, 
And  I  will  live  in  song  and  fame, 
Entwined  with  many  a  mountain  tale, 
As  he  who  first  found  this  sweet  vale, 
And  they  will  give  the  place  my  name,' 
She  was  most  sad,  and  troubled  much, 
And  looked  in  silence  far  away; 
Then  started  trembling  from  my  touch, 
And  when  she  turn'd  her  face  again, 
I  read  unutterable  pain. 

"At  last   she   answered    through   her 

tears, 

'Ah!  yes;  this,  too,  foretells  my  fears: 
Yes,  they  will  come — my  race  must  go 
As  fades  a  vernal  fall  of  snow; 
And  you  be  known,  and  I  forgot 
Like  these  brown  leaves  that  rust  and  rot 
Beneath  my  feet;  and  it  is  well: 
I  do  not  seek  to  thrust  my  name 
On  those  who  here,  hereafter,  dwell, 
Because  I  have  before  them  dwelt; 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL,  ALCALDE. 


They  too  will  have  their  tales  to  tell, 
They  too  will  have  their  time  and  fame. 

"  'Yes,  they  will  come,  come  even  now; 
The  dim  ghosts  ou  yon  mountain's  brow, 
Gray  Fathers  of  my  tribe  and  race, 
Do  beckon  to  us  from  their  place, 
And  hurl  red  arrows  through  the  air 
At  night,  to  bid  our  braves  beware. 
A  footprint  by  the  clear  McCloud, 
Unlike  aught  ever  seen  before, 
Is  seen.    The  crash  of  rifles  loud 

Is  heard  along  its  farther  shore.' 

****#*          *         * 

"  What  tall  and  tawny  men  were  these, 
As  somber,  silent,  as  the  trees 
They  moved  among!  and  sad  some  way 
With  temper'd  sadness,  ever  they,  — 
Yet  not  with  sorrow  born  of  fear. 
The  shadow  of  their  destinies 
They  saw  approaching  year  by  year, 
And  murmur'd  not.     They  saw  the  sun 
Go  down;  they  saw  the  peaceful  moon 
Move  on  in  silence  to  her  rest, 
Saw  white  streams  winding  to  the  west; 
And  thus  they  knew  that  oversoon, 
Somehow,  somewhere,  for  every  one 
Was  rest  beyond  the  setting  sun. 
They  knew  not,  never  dream'd  of  doubt, 
But  turn'd  to  death  as  to  a  sleep, 
And  died  with  eager  hands  held  out 
To  reaching  hands  beyond  the  deep, — 
And  died  with  choicest  bow  at  hand, 
And  quiver  full,  and  arrow  drawn 
For  use,  when  sweet  to-morrow's  dawn 
Should  waken  in  the  Spirit  Land. 

"  What  wonder  that  I  linger'd  there 
With  Nature's  children!     Could  I  part 
With  those  that  met  me  heart  to  heart, 
And  made  me  welcome,  spoke  me  fair, 
Were  first  of  all  that  understood 
My  waywardness  from  others'  ways, 
My  worship  of  the  true  and  good, 
And  earnest  love  of  Nature's  God? 
Go  court  the  mountains  in  the  clouds, 
And  clashing  thunder,  and  the  shrouds 


Of  tempests,  and  eternal  shocks, 
And  fast  and  pray  as  one  of  old 
In  earnestness,  and  ye  shall  hold 
The  mysteries;  shall  hold  the  rod 
That  passes  seas,  that  smites  the  rocks 
Where  streams  of  melody  and  song 
Shall  run  as  white  streams  rush  and  flow 
Down  from  the  mountains'  crests  of  snow, 

Forever,  to  a  thirsting  throng. 

*  *•  *  *  *         *         * 

"Between  the  white  man  and  the  red 
There  lies  no  neutral,  halfway  ground. 
I  heard  afar  the  thunder  sound 
That  soon  should  burst  above  my  head, 
And  made  niy  choice;  I  laid  my  plan, 
And  childlike  chose  the  weaker  side; 
And  ever  have,  and  ever  will, 
While  might  is  wrong  and  wrongs  remain, 
As  careless  of  the  world  as  I 
Am  careless  of  a  cloudless  sky. 
With  wayward  and  romantic  joy 
I  gave  my  pledge  like  any  boy, 
But  kept  my  promise  like  a  man, 
And  lost;  yet  with  the  lesson  still 
Would  gladly  do  the  same  again. 

"'They  come!  they  come!  the  pale-face 

come!' 

The  chieftain  shouted  where  he  stood, 
Sharp  watching  at  the  margin  wood, 
And  gave  the  war-whoop's  treble  yell, 
That  like  a  knell  on  fond  hearts  fell 
Far  watching  from  my  rocky  home. 

"No  nodding  plumes  or  banners  fair 
Unfurl'd  or  fretted  through  the  air; 
No  screaming  fife  or  rolling  drum 
Did  challenge  brave  of  soul  to  come: 
But,  silent,  sinew-bows  were  strung, 
And,  sudden,  heavy  quivers  hung 
And,  swiftly,  to  the  battle  sprung 
Tall  painted  braves  with  tufted  hair, 
Like  death-black  banners  in  the  air. 

"And  long  they  fought,  and  firm  and 

well 
And  silent  fought,  and  silent  fell, 


24 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL,  ALCALDE. 


Save  when  they  gave  the  fearful  yell 
Of  death,  defiance,  or  of  hate. 
But  what  were  feathered  flints  to  fate? 
And  what  were  yells  to  seething  lead? 
And  what  the  few  and  untrained  feet 
To  troops  that  came  with  martial  tread, 
And  moved  by  wood  and  hill  and  stream 
As  thick  as  people  in  a  street, 
As  strange  as  spirits  in  a  dream? 

' '  From  pine  and  poplar,  here  and  there, 
A  cloud,  a  flash,  a  crash,  a  thud, 
A  warrior's  garments  roll'd  in  blood, 
A  yell  that  rent  the  mountain  air 
Of  fierce  defiance  and  despair, 
Told  all  who  fell,  and  when  and  where. 
Then  tighter  drew  the  coils  around, 
And  closer  grew  the  battle-ground, 
And  fewer  feather'd  arrows  fell, 
And  fainter  grew  the  battle  yell, 
Until  upon  that  hill  was  heard 
The  short,  sharp  whistle  of  the  bird: 
Until  that  blood-soaked  battle  hill 
Was  still  as  death,  so  more  than  still. 

"The  calm,  that  cometh after  all, 
Look'd  sweetly  down  at  shut  of  day, 
Where  friend  and  foe  commingled  lay 
Like  leaves  of  forest  as  they  fall. 
Afar  the  somber  mountains  frown'd, 
Here  tall  pines   wheel'd   their    shadows 

round, 

Like  long,  slim  fingers  of  a  hand 
That  sadly  pointed  out  the  dead. 
Like  some  broad  shield  high  overhead 
The  great  white  moon  led  on  and  on, 
As  leading  to  the  better  land. 
All  night  I  heard  the  cricket's  trill, 
That  night-bird  calling  from  the  hill — 
The  place  was  so  profoundly  still. 

"  The  mighty  chief  at  last  was  down, 
A  broken  gate  of  brass  and  pride! 
His  hair  all  dust,  and  this  his  crown! 
His  firm  lips  were  compress'd  in  hate 
To  foes,  yet  all  content  with  fate; 
While,  circled  round  him  thick,  the  foe 


Had  folded  hands  in  dust,  and  died. 
His  tomahawk  lay  at  his  side, 
All  blood,  beside  his  broken  bow. 
One  arm  stretch'd  out,  still  over-bold, 
One  hand  half  doubled  hid  in  dust, 
And  clutch'd  the  earth,  as  if  to  hold 
His  hunting  grounds  still  in  his  trust. 

"  Here  tall  grass  bow'd  its  tassel'd  head 
In  dewy  tears  above  the  dead, 
And  there  they  lay  in  crook'd  fern, 
That  waved  and  wept  above  by  turn: 
And  further  on,  by  somber  trees, 
They  lay,  wild  heroes  of  wild  deeds, 
In  shrouds  alone  of  weeping  weeds, 
Bound  in  a  never-to-be-broken  peace. 

"No  trust  that  day  had  been  betrayed; 
Not  one  had  falter'd,  not  one  brave 
Survived  the  fearful  struggle,  save 
One — save  I  the  renegade, 
The  red  man's  friend,  and— they  held  me 

so 
For  this  alone — the  white  man's  foe. 

"  They  bore  me  bound  for  many  a  day 
Through  fen  and  wild,  by  foamy  flood, 
From  my  dear  mountains  far  away, 
Where  an  adobe  prison  stood 
Beside  a  sultry,  sullen,  town, 
With  iron  eyes  and  stony  frown; 
And  in  a  dark  and  narrow  cell, 
So  hot  it  almost  took  my  breath, 
And  seem'd  but  some  outpost  of  hell, 
They  thrust  me — as  if  I  had  been 
A  monster,  in  a  monster's  den. 
I  cried  aloud,  I  courted  death, 
I  call'd  unto  a  strip  of  sky, 
The  only  thing  beyond  my  cell 
That  I  could  see,  but  no  reply 
Came  but  the  echo  of  my  breath. 
I  paced — how  long  I  cannot  tell — 
My  reason  fail'd,  I  knew  no  more, 
And  swooning,  fell  upon  the  floor. 
Then  months  went  on,  till  deep  one  night, 
When  long  thin  bars  of  cool  moonlight 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


Lay  shimmering  along  the  floor, 
My  senses  came  to  me  once  more. 

«'  My  eyes  look'd  full  into  her  eyes — 
Into  her  soul  so  true  and  tried, 
I  thought  myself  in  paradise, 
And  wonder'd  when  she  too  had  died. 
And  then  I  saw  the  striped  light 
That  struggled  past  the  prison  bar, 
And  in  an  instant,  at  the  sight, 
My  sinking  soul  fell  just  as  far 
As  could  a  star  loosed  by  a  jar 
From  out  the  setting  in  a  ring, 
The  purpled  semi-circled  ring 
That  seems  to  circle  us  at  night. 

"She  saw  my  senses  had  return'd, 
Then  swift  to  press  my  pallid  face- 
Then,  as  if  spurn'd,  she  sudden  turn'd 
Her  sweet  face  to  the  prison  wall; 
Her  bosom  rose,  her  hot  tears  fell 
Fast  as  drip  moss-stones  in  a  well, 
And  then,  as  if  subduing  all 
In  one  strong  struggle  of  the  soul 
Be  what  they  were  of  vows  or  fears, 
With  kisses  and  hot  tender  tears, 
There  in  the  deadly,  loathsome  place, 
She  bathed  my  pale  and  piteous  face. 

14 1  was  so  weak  I  could  not  speak 
Or  press  my  pale  lips  to  her  cheek; 
1  only  looked  my  wish  to  share 
The  secret  of  her  presence  there. 
Then  looking  through  her  falling  hair, 
She  press'd  her  finger  to  her  lips, 
More  sweet  than  sweets  the  brown  bee  sips. 
More  sad  than  any  grief  untold, 
More  silent  than  the  milk-white  moon, 
She  turned  away.     I  heard  unfold 
An  iron  door,  and  she  was  gone. 

"  At  last,  one  midnight,  I  was  free; 
Again  I  felt  the  liquid  air 
Around  my  hot  brow  like  a  sea, 
Sweet  as  my  dear  Madonna's  prayer, 
Or  benedictions  on  the  soul; 
Pure  air,  which  God  gives  free  to  all, 


Again  I  breathed  without  control — 
Pure  air  that  man  would  fain  enthrall; 
God's   air,  which  man   hath  sei.  *d   and 

sold 
Unto  his  fellow-man  for  gold. 

"  I  bow'd  down  to  the  bended  sky, 
I  toss'd  my  two  thin  hands  on  high, 
I  call'd  unto  the  crooked  moon, 
I  shouted  to  the  shining  stars, 
With  breath  and  rapture  uncontroll'd, 
Like    some    wild    school-boy    loosed   at 

noon, 

Or  comrade  coming  from  the  wars, 
Hailing  his  conipaniers  of  old. 

"Short  time  for  shouting  or  delay, — 
The  cock  is  shrill,  the  east  is  gray, 
Pursuit  is  made,  I  must  away. 
They  cast  me  on  a  sinewy  steed, 
And  bid  me  look  to  girth  and  guide — 
A  caution  of  but  little  need. 
I  dash  the  iron  in  his  side, 
Swift  as  the  shooting  stars  I  ride; 
I  turn,  I  see,  to  my  dismay, 
A  silent  rider  red  as  they; 
I  glance  again — it  is  my  bride, 
My  love,  my  life,  rides  at  my  side. 

"By  gulch  and  gorge  and  brake  and  all. 
Swift  as  the  shining  meteors  fall, 
We  fly,  and  never  sound  nor  word 
But  ringing  mustang  hoof  is  heard, 
And  limbs  of  steel  and  lungs  of  steam 
Could  not  be  stronger  than  theirs  seem. 
Grandly  as  in  some  joyous  dream, 
League  on  league,  and  hour  on  hour, 
Far  from  keen  pursuit,  or  power 
Of  sheriff  or  bailiff,  high  or  low, 
Into  the  bristling  hills  we  go. 

tl  Into  the  tumbled,  clear  McCloud, 
White  as  the  foldings  of  a  shroud; 
We  dash  into  the  dashing  stream, 
We  breast  the  tide,  we  drop  the  rein, 
We  clutch  the  streaming,  tangled  mane— 
And  yet  the  rider  at  my  side 
Has  never  look  nor  word  replied. 


26 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


"Out  in  its  foam,  its  rush,  its  roar, 
Breasting  away  to  the  farther  shore; 
Steadily,  bravely,  gain'd  at  last, 
Gain'd,  where  never  a  dastard  foe 
Has  dared  to  come,  or  friend  to  go. 
Pursuit  is  baffled  and  danger  pass'd. 

"  Under  an  oak  whose  wide  arms  were 
Lifting  aloft,  as  if  in  prayer, 
Under  an  oak,  where  the  shining  moon 
Like  feather'd  snow  in  a  winter  noon 
Quiver'd,  sifted,  and  drifted  down 
In  spars  and  bars  on  her  shoulders  brown: 
And  yet  she  was  as  silent  still 
As  block  stones  toppled  from  the  hill — 
Great  basalt  blocks  that  near  us  lay, 
Deep  nestled  in  the  grass  untrod 
By  aught  save  wild  beasts  of  the  wood — 
Great,    massive,    squared,    and     chisel'd 

stone, 

Like  columns  that  had  toppled  down 
From  temple  dome  or  tower  crown, 
Along  some  drifted,  silent  way 
Of  desolate  and  desert  town 
Built  by  the  children  of  the  sun. 
And  I  in  silence  sat  on  one, 
And  she  stood  gazing  far  away 
To  where  her  childhood  forests  lay, 
Still  as  the  stone  I  sat  upon. 

"I  sought  to  catch  her  to  my  breast 
And  charm  her  from  her  silent  mood; 
She  shrank  as  if  a  beam,  a  breath, 
Then  silently  before  me  stood, 
Still,  coldly,  as  the  kiss  of  death. 
Her  face  was  darker  than  a  pall, 
Her  presence  was  so  proudly  tall, 
I  would  have  started  from  the  stone 
Where  I  sat  gazing  up  at  her, 
As  from  a  form  to  earth  unknown, 
Had  I  possess'd  the  power  to  stir. 

"  'O  touch  me  not,  no  more,  no  more; 
'Tis  past,  and  my  sweet  dream  is  o'er. 
Impure!  Impure!  Impure!'  she  cried, 
In  words  as  sweetly,  wierdly  wild 
As  mingling  of  a  rippled  tide, 


And  music  on  the  waters  spill'd.  .  .  . 
' But  you  are  free,     Fly!    Fly  alone. 
Yes,  you  will  win  another  bride 
In  some  far  clime  where  nought  is  known 
Of  all  that  you  have  won  or  lost, 
Or  what  your  liberty  has  cost; 
Will  win  you  name,  and  place,  and  power, 
And  ne'er  recall  this  face,  this  hour, 
Save  in  some  secret,  deep  regret, 
Which  I  forgive  and  you'll  forget. 
Your  destiny  will  lead  you  on 
Where,  open'd  wide  to  welcome  you, 
Rich,  ardent  hearts  and  bosoms  are, 
And  snowy  arms,  more  purely  fair, 
And  breasts — who  dare  say  breasts  more 
true  ? 

"  « They  said  you  had  deserted  me, 
Had  rued  you  of  your  wood  and  wild. 
I  knew,  I  knew  it  could  not  be, 
I  trusted  as  a  trusting  child. 
I  cross'd  yon  mountains  bleak  and  high 
That  curve  their  rough  backs  to  the  sky, 
I  rode  the  white-maned  mountain  flood, 
And  track'd  for  weeks  the  trackless  wood. 
The  good  God  led  me,  as  before, 
And  brought  me  to  your  prison-door. 

11  'That   madden'd  call!     that    fever'd 

moan! 

I  heard  you  in  the  midnight  call 
My  own  name  through  the  massive  wall, 
In  my  sweet  mountain-tongue  and  tone — 
And  yet  you  call'd  so  feebly  wild, 
I  near  mistook  you  for  a  child. 

The  keeper  with  his  clinking  keys 
I  sought,  implored  upon  my  knees 
That  I  might  see  you,  feel  your  breath, 
Your  brow,  or  breathe  you  low  replies 
Of  comfort  in  your  lonely  death. 
His  red  face  shone,  his  redder  eyes 
Were  like  a  fiend's  that  feeds  on  lies. 
Again  I  heard  your  feeble  moan, 
I  cried— unto  a  heart  of  stone. 
Ah!  why  the  hateful  horrors  tell? 
Enough!  I  crept  into  your  cell. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


"  '  I  nursed  you,  lured  you  back  to  life, 
And  when  you  knew,  and  called  me  wife 
And  love,  with  pale  lips  rife 
With  love  and  feeble  loveliness, 
I  turn'd  away,  I  hid  my  face, 
In  mad  reproach  and  such  distress, 
In  dust  down  in  that  loathsome  place. 

«'  'And  then  I  vow'd  a  solemn  vow 
That  you  should  live,  live  and  be  free. 
And  you  have  lived — are  free;  and  now 
Too  slow  yon  red  sun  comes  to  see 
My  life  or  death,  or  me  again. 
Oh,  death!  the  peril  and  the  pain 
I  have  endured!  the  dark,  dark  stain 
That  I  did  take  on  my  fair  soul, 
All,  all  to  save  you,  make  you  free, 
Are  more  than  mortal  can  endure; 
But  flame  can  make  the  foulest  pure. 

"  'Behold  this  finished  funeral  pyre, 
All  ready  for  the  form  and  fire, 
Which  these,  my  own  hands,  did  prepare 
For  this  last  night;  then  lay  me  there. 
I  would  not  hide  me  from  my  God 
Beneath  the  cold  and  sullen  sod, 
But,  wrapp'd  in  fiery  shining  shroud, 
Ascend  to  Him,  a  wreathing  cloud.' 

"She  paused,  she  turn'd,   she  lean'd 

apace 

Her  glance  and  half-regretting  face, 
As  if  to  yield  herself  to  me; 
And  then  she  cried,  '  It  cannot  be, 
For  I  have  vow'd  a  solemn  vow, 
And,  God  help  me  to  keep  it  now!' 

"  I  stood  with  arms  extended  wide 
To  catch  her  to  my  burning  breast; 
She  caught  a  dagger  from  her  side 
And,  ere  I  knew  to  stir  or  start, 
She  plunged  it  in  her  bursting  heart, 
And  fell  into  my  arms  and  died — 
Died  as  my  soul  to  hers  was  press'd, 
Died  as  I  held  her  to  my  breast, 
Died  without  one  word  or  moan, 
And  left  me  with  my  dead— alone. 


"  I  laid  her  warm  upon  the  pile, 
And  underneath  the  lisping  oak 
I  watch'd  the  columns  of  dark  smoke 
Embrace  her  red  lips,  with  a  smile 
Of  frenzied  fierceness,  while  there  came 
A  gleaming  column  of  red  flame, 
That  grew  a  grander  monument 
Above  her  nameless  noble  mould 
Than  ever  bronze  or  marble  lent 
To  king  or  conqueror  of  old. 

"It  seized  her  in  its  hot  embrace, 
And  leapt  as  if  to  reach  the  stars. 
Then  looking  up  I  saw  a  face 
So  saintly  and  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sad,  so  pitying,  and  so  pure, 
I  nigh  forgot  the  prison  bars, 
And  for  one  instant,  one  alone, 
I  felt  I  could  forgive,  endure. 

"  I  laid  a  circlet  of  white  stone, 

And  left  her  ashes  there  alone 

Years  after,  years  of  storm  and  pain, 
I  sought  that  sacred  ground  again. 
I  saw  the  circle  of  white  stone 
With  tall,  wild  grasses  overgrown. 
I  did  expect,  I  know  not  why, 
From  out  her  sacred  dust  to  find 
Wild  pinks  and  daisies  blooming  fair; 
And  when  I  did  not  find  them  there 
I  almost  deern'd  her  God  unkind, 
Less  careful  of  her  dust  than  I. 

"  But  why  the  dreary  tale  prolong? 
And  deem  you  I  coufess'd  me  wrong, 
That  I  did  bend  a  patient  kuee 
To  all  the  deep  wrongs  done  to  me? 
That  I,  because  the  prison  mould 
Was  on  my  brow,  and  all  its  chill 
Was  in  iny  heart  as  chill  as  night, 
Till  soul  and  body  both  were  cold, 
Did  curb  my  free-born  mountain  will 
And  sacrifice  my  sense  of  right  ? 

"No!  no!  and  had  they  come  that  day 
While  I  with  hands  and  garments  red 
Stood  by  her  pleading,  patient  clay, 
The  one  lone  watcher  by  my  dead, 


28 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


With  cross-hilt  dagger  in  my  hand, 

And  offer'd  me  my  life  and  all 

Of  titles,  power,  or  of  place, 

I  should  have  spat  them  in  the  face, 

And  spurn'd  them  every  one. 

I  live  as  God  gave  me  to  live, 

I  see  as  God  gave  me  to  see. 

"Tis  not  my  nature  to  forgive, 

Or  cringe  and  plead  and  bend  the  knee 

To  God  or  man  in  woe  or  weal, 

In  penitence  I  cannot  feel. 

"  I  do  not  question  school  nor  creed 
Of  Christian,  Protestant,  or  Priest; 
I  only  know  that  creeds  to  me 
Are  but  new  names  for  mystery, 
That  good  is  good  from  east  to  east, 
And  more  I  do  not  know  nor  need 
To  know,  to  love  my  neighbor  well. 
I  take  their  dogmas,  as  they  tell, 
Their  pictures  of  their  Godly  good, 
In  garments  thick  with  heathen  blood; 
Their  heaven  with  his  harp  of  gold, 
Their  horrid  pictures  of  their  hell — 
Take  hell  and  heaven  undenied, 
Yet  were  the  two  placed  side  by  side, 
Placed  full  before  me  for  my  choice, 
As  they  are  pictured,  best  and  worst, 
As  they  are  peopled,  tame  and  bold, 
The  canonized,  and  the  accursed 
Who  dared  to  think,  and  thinking  speak, 
And  speaking  act,  bold  cheek  to  cheek, 
I  would  in  transports  choose  the  first, 

And  enter  hell  with  lifted  voice. 

»  *  «  *  * 

"  Go  read  the  annals  of  the  North 
And  records  there  of  many  a  wail, 
Of  marshalling  and  going  forth 
For  missing  sheriffs,  and  for  men 
Who  fell  and  none  knew  how  nor  when, — 
Who  disappear'd  on  mountain  trail, 
Or  in  some  dense  and  narrow  vale. 
Go,  traverse  Trinity  and  Scott, 
That  curve  their  dark  backs  to  the  sun: 
Go,  prowl  them  all.    Lo!  have  they  not 
The  chronicles  of  my  wild  life? 


My  secrets  on  their  lips  of  stone, 
My  archives  built  of  human  bone? 
Go,  range  their  wilds  as  I  have  done, 
From  snowy  crest  to  sleeping  vales, 
And  you  will  find  on  every  one 

Enough  to  swell  a  thousand  tales. 

#  *  *          •  *  * 

"The  soul  cannot  survive  alone, 
And  hate  will  die,  like  other  things; 
I  felt  an  ebbing  in  my  rage; 
I  hunger'd  for  the  sound  of  one, 
Just  one  familiar  word, — 
Yearn'd  but  to  hear  my  fellow  speak, 
Or  sound  of  woman's  mellow  tone, 
As  beats  the  wild,  imprison'd  bird, 
That  long  nor  kind  nor  mate  has  heard, 
With  bleeding  wings  and  panting  beak 
Against  its  iron  cage. 

"  I  saw  a  low-roof 'd  rancho  lie, 
Far,  far  below,  at  set  of  sun, 
Along  the  foot-hills  crisp  and  dun — 
A  lone  sweet  star  in  lower  sky; 
Saw  children  passing  to  and  fro, 
The  busy  housewife  come  and  go, 
And  white  cows  come  at  her  command, 
And  none  look'd  larger  than  my  hand. 
Then    worn    and   torn,   and   tann'd   and 

brown, 

And  heedless  all,  I  hasten'd  down; 
A  wanderer,  wandering  lorn  and  late, 
I  stood  before  the  rustic  gate. 

"  Two  little  girls,  with  brown  feet  bare, 
And  tangled,  tossing,  yellow  hair, 
Play'd  on  the  green,  fantastic  dress'd, 
Around  a  great  Newfoundland  brute 
That  lay  half-resting  on  his  breast, 
And  with  his  red  mouth  open'd  wide 
Would  make  believe  that  he  would  bite, 
As  they  assail'd  him  left  and  right, 
And  then  sprang  to  the  other  side, 
And  fill'd  with  shouts  the  willing  air. 
Oh,  sweeter  far  than  lyre  or  lute 
To  my  then  hot  and  thirsty  heart, 
And  better  self  so  wholly  mute, 
Were  those  sweet  voices  calling  there. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL  ALCALDE. 


29 


"Though  some  sweet  scenes  my  eyes 

have  seen, 

Some  melody  my  soul  has  heard, 
No  song  of  any  maid,  or  bird, 
Or  splendid  wealth  of  tropic  scene, 
Or  scene  or  song  of  anywhere, 
Has  my  impulsive  soul  so  stirr'd, 
As  those  young  angels  sporting  there. 

"The  dog  at  sight  of  me  arose, 
And  nobly  stood  with  lifted  nose, 
Afront  the  children,  now  so  still, 
And  staring  at  me  with  a  will. 
'  Come  in,  come  in,'  the  rancher  cried, 
As  here  and  there  the  housewife  hied; 
'  Sit  down,  sit  down,  you  travel  late. 
What  news  of  politics  or  war? 
And  are  you  tired?     Go  you  far? 
And  where  you  from  ?  Be  quick,  my  Kate, 
This  boy  is  sure  in  need  of  food.' 
The  little  children  close  by  stood, 
And  watch'd  and  gazed  inquiringly, 
Then  came  and  climbed  upon  my  knee. 

"  'That  there's  my  Ma,'  the  eldest  said, 
And  laugh'd  and  toss'd  her  pretty  head; 
And  then,  half  bating  of  her  joy, 
'  Have  you  a  Ma,  you  stranger  boy?- 
And  there  hangs  Carlo  on  the  wall 
As  large  as  life;  that  mother  drew 
With  berry  stains  upon  a  shred 
Of  tattered  tent;  but  hardly  you 
Would  know  the  picture  his  at  all, 
For  Carlo's  black,  and  this  is  red.' 
Again  she  laugh'd,  and  shook  her  head, 
And  shower'd  curls  all  out  of  place; 
Then  sudden  sad,  she  raised  her  face 
To  mine,  and  tenderly  she  said, 
'Have  you,  like  us,  a  pretty  home? 
Have  you,  like  me,  a  dog  and  toy? 
Where  do  you  live,  and  whither  roam? 
And  where's  your  Pa,  poor  stranger  boy?' 

"It  seem'd  so  sweetly  out  of  place 
Again  to  meet  my  fellow-man. 
I  gazed  and  gazed  upon  his  face 
As  something  I  had  never  seen. 


The  melody  of  woman's  voice 

Fell  on  my  ear  as  falls  the  rain 

Upon  the  weary,  waiting  plain. 

I  heard,  and  drank  and  drank  again, 

As  earth  with  crack'd  lips  drinks  the  rain, 

In  green  to  revel  and  rejoice. 

I  ate  with  thanks  my  frugal  food, 

The  first  return 'd  for  many  a  day. 

I  had  met  kindness  by  the  way! 

I  had  at  last  eucounter'd  good! 

"  I  sought  my  couch,  but  not  to  sleep; 
New  thoughts  were  coursing  strong  and 

deep 

My  wild,  impulsive  passion-heart; 
I  could  not  rest,  my  heart  was  moved, 
My  iron  will  forgot  its  part, 
And  I  wept  like  a  child  reproved. 

"I  lay  and  pictured  me  a  life 
Afar  from  peril,  hate,  or  pain; 
Enough  of  battle,  blood,  and  strife, 
I  would  take  up  life's  load  again; 
And  ere  the  breaking  of  the  morn 
I  swung  my  rifle  from  the  horn, 
And  turned  to  other  scenes  and  lands 
With  lighteu'd  heart  and  whiteu'd  hands. 

"  Where  orange  blossoms  never  die, 
Where  red  fruits  ripen  all  the  year 
Beneath  a  sweet  and  balmy  sky, 
Far  from  my  language  or  my  land, 
Reproach,  regret,  or  shame  or  fear, 
I  came  in  hope,  I  wander'd  here — 
Yes,  here;  and  this  red,  bony  hand 
That  holds  this  glass  of  ruddy  cheer — " 

"'Tis  he!  "  hiss'd  the  crafty  advocate. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  hot  with  hate 
He  reach'd  his  hands,  and  he  call'd  aloud, 
"  'Tis  the  renegade  of  the  red  McCloud!  " 

Slowly  the  Alcalde  rose  from  his   chair; 
"  Hand  me,  touch  me,  him  who  dare!  " 
And  his  heavy  glass  on  the  board  of  oak 
He  smote  with  such  savage  and  mighty 

stroke, 
It  ground  to  dust  in  his  bony  hand, 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  TALL,  ALCALDE. 


And  heavy  bottles  did  clink  and  tip 

As  if  an  earthquake  were  in  the  land. 

He  tower'd  up,  and  in  his  ire 

Seem'd  taller  than  a  church's  spire. 

He  gazed  a  moment — and  then,  the  while 

An  icy  cold  and  defiant  smile 

Did  curve  his  thin  and  his  livid  lip, 


He  turn'd  on  his  heel,  he  strode  through 

the  hall 

Grand  as  a  god,  so  grandly  tall, 
Yet  white  and  cold  as  a  chisel'd  stone; 
He  passed  him  out  the  adobe  door 
Into  the  night,  and  he  pass'd  alone, 
And  never  was  known  or  heard  of  more. 


The  lesson  of  this  poem  is  that  of  persistent  toil  and  endeavor.  It  certainly  is  not  "  a  little  thing  dashed  off 
before  breakfast,"  for  it  was  twice  revised  and  published  before  its  first  appearance  in  London,  and  has  been  cut 
and  revised  at  least  half  a  dozen  times  since;  and  is  still  incomplete  and  very  unsatisfying  to  the  writer,  except  as 
to  the  descriptions.  It  was  my  first  attempt  at  telling  a  story  in  verse,  that  was  thought  worth  preserving.  It 
was  begun  when  but  a  lad,  camped  with  our  horses  for  a  month's  rest  in  an  old  adobe  ruin  on  the  Reading  Ranch, 
with  the  gleaming  snows  of  Mount  Shasta  standing  out  above  the  clouds  against  the  cold,  blue  north.  The  story  is 
not  new,  having  been  written,  or  at  least  lived  in  every  mountain  land  of  intermixed  races  that  has  been:  a  young 
outlaw  in  love  with  a  wild  mountain  beauty,  his  battles  for  her  people  against  his  own,  the  capture,  prison, 
brave  release,  flight,  return,  and  revenge—  a  sort  of  modified  Mazeppa.  But  it  has  been  a  fat  source  of  feeding 
for  grimly  humorous  and  sensational  writers,  who  long  ago  claimed  to  have  found  in  it  the  story  of  my  early  life; 
and  strangely  enough  I  was  glad  when  they  did  so,  and  read  their  stories  with  wild  delight.  I  don't  know  why  I 
always  encouraged  this  idea  of  having  been  an  outlaw,  but  I  recall  that  when  Trelawny  told  me  that  Byron  was 
more  ambitious  to  be  thought  the  hero  of  his  wildest  poems  than  even  to  be  king  of  Greece  I  could  not  help  saying 
to  myself,  as  Napoleon  said  to  the  thunders  preceding  Waterloo,  "  We  are  of  accord." 

The  only  serious  trouble  about  the  claim  that  I  made  the  fight  of  life  up  the  ugly  steeps  from  a  hole  in  an 
adobe  prison-wall  to  the  foothills  of  Olympus  instead  of  over  the  pleasant  campus  of  a  college,  is  the  fact  that 
"ourfriends  the  enemy"  fixed  the  date  at  about  the  eame  time  in  which  I  am  on  record  as  reading  my  class 
poem  in  another  land.  Besides,  I  was  chosen  to  the  bench  on  the  very  ticket  when  the  very  sheriff  who  should 
have  kept  me  in  his  adobe  prison  was  elected  senator,  and  by  some  of  the  very  men  of  my  Mount  Shasta  with 
whom  I  had  served  in  war  against  these  same  Indians  for  whom  it  is  said  I  sold  my  birthright.  Or  did  I  have 
a  double,  and  was  it  the  other  self  who  was  at  college?  And  is  it  not  possible  that  I  am  even  now  the  original 
and  only  real  Joaquin  Murietta?  For  more  than  once  in  the  old  days  I  was  told  (and  how  pleased  I  was  to 
hear  it  said)  that  no  other  than  Joaquin  Murietta  could  ever  ride  as  I  rode.  But  here  again  is  confusion,  even 
more  than  the  confusion  of  dates  and  deeds  and  names.  For  his  hair  was  as  black  as  a  whole  midnight,  while 
mine  was  the  hue  of  hammered  gold.  And,  after  all,  was  it  not  my  vanity  and  willingness  to  be  thought 
Joaquin,  rather  than  pity  for  the  brave  boy  outlaw,  driven  to  desperation  by  wrongs  too  brutal  to  be  told, 
that  made  me  write  of  him  and  usurp  his  bloody  name?  Anyhow,  I'd  rather  to-day  be  Joaquin  Murietta,  dead  or 
living,  than  the  wretch  who  got  the  reward  for  his  alleged  taking  off.  And  was  Joaquin  Murietta  really 
killed' when  that  party  of  Texans  surprised  and  butchered  a  band  of  unarmed  Mexicans?  Nine  men  in  ten  will  say 
not. 

Mrs.  Gale  Page,  daughter  of  an  early  governor  of  Oregon,  told  me  at  Walla  Walla,  July  5th,  1896,  in  her  own 
house,  that  her  father,  who  knew  and  liked  Joaquin,  when  a  miner,  had  had  two  letters  from  him,  dated  and 
postmarked  Mexico,  years  after  his  alleged  death.  So  he  certainly  was  not  killed  as  told.  But  pity,  pity,  that 
men  should  so  foolishly  waste  time  with  either  me  or  mine  when  I  have  led  them  into  the  mighty  heart  of  ma 
jestic  Shasta.  Why  yonder,  lone  as  God  and  white  as  the  great  white  throne,  there  looms  against  the  sapphire 
upper  seas  a  mountain  peak  that  props  the  very  porch  of  heaven;  and  yet  they  bother  with  and  want  to  torment  a 
poor  mote  of  dust  that  sinks  in  the  grasses  at  their  feet !  Why,  I  know  a  single  canon  there  so  deep,  so  bottom 
less,  and  broad  and  somber  that  a  whole  night  once  housed  there  and  let  a  gold  and  silver  day  glide  on  and  on 
and  over  it  all  the  vast  day  long,  and  all  day  long  night  lay  there  undiscovered.  Yet  in  this  presence  there  be 
those  who  will  stoop  to  look  at  a  mere  mote  at  their  feet,  or  on  their  shoes,  and  bother  to  know  whether  it  be 
a  black  speck  or  a  white;  preferring,  however,  to  find  it  black. 


THE    LAST    TASCHASTAS. 


THE  LAST  TASCHASTAS. 

The.  hills  were  broivn,  the  heavens  were  blue, 
A  woodpecker  pounded  a  pine-top  shell. 

While  a  partridge  whistled  the  whole  day  through 
For  a  rabbit  to  dance  in  the  chapparal, 
And  a  grey  grouse  drummed,  "All's  well,  all's  well.3 


I. 

Wrinkled  and  brown  as  a  bag  of  leather, 
A.  squaw  sits  moaning  long  and  low. 
Yesterday  she  was  a  wife  and  mother, 
To-day  she  is  rocking  her  to  and  fro, 
A  childless  widow,  in  weeds  and  woe. 

An  Indian  sits  in  a  rocky  cavern 
Chipping  a  flint  in  an  arrow  head; 
His  children  are  moving  as  still  as  shadows, 
His  squaw  is  moulding  some  balls  of  lead, 
With  round  face  painted  a  battle-rede 

An  Indian  sits  in  a  black-jack  jungle, 
Where  a  grizzly  bear  has  rear'd  her  young, 
Whetting  a  flint  on  a  granite  boulder. 
His  quiver  is  over  his  brown  back  hung — 
His  face  is  streak'd  and  his  bow  is  strung. 

An  Indian  hangs  from  a  cliff  of  granite, 
Like  an  eagle's  nest  built  in  the  air, 
Looking  away  to  the  east,  and  watching 
The  smoke  of  the  cabins  curling  there, 
And  eagle's  feathers  are  in  his  hair. 

In  belt  of  wampum,  in  battle  fashion 
An  Indian  watches  with  wild  desire. 
He  is  red  with  paint,  he  is  black  with  pas 
sion; 

And  grand  as  a  god  in  his  savage  ire, 
He  leans  and  listens  till  stars  are  a-fire. 

All  somber  and  sullen  and  sad,  a  chieftain 
Now  looks  from  the  mountain  far  into  the 

sea. 

Just  before  him  beat  in  the  white  billows, 
Just  behind  him  the  toppled  tall  tree 
And  woodmen    chopping,    knee   buckled 

to  knee. 


II. 

All  together,  all  in  council, 

In  a  canon  wall'd  so  high 

That  no  thing  could  ever  reach  them 

Save  some  stars  dropp'd  from  the  sky. 

And  the  brown  bats  sweeping  by: 

Tawny  chieftains  thin  and  wiry, 
Wise  as  brief,  and  brief  as  bold; 
Chieftains  young  and  fierce  and  fiery. 
Chieftains  stately,  stern  and  old, 
Bronzed  and  battered— battered  gold. 

Flamed  the  council-fire  brighter, 
Flash'd  black  eyes  like  diamond  beads, 
When  a  woman  told  her  sorrows, 
While  a  warrior  told  his  deeds, 
And  a  widow  tore  her  weeds. 

Then  was  lit  the  pipe  of  council 
That  their  fathers  smoked  of  old, 
With  its  stem  of  manzanita, 
And  its  bowl  of  quartz  and  gold, 
And  traditions  manifold. 

How  from  lip  to  lip  in  silence 
Burn'd  it  round  the  circle  red, 
Like  an  evil  star  slow  passing 
(Sign  of  battles  and  bloodshed) 
Round  the  heavens  overhead. 

Then  the  silence  deep  was  broken 

By  the  thunder  rolling  far, 

As  gods  muttering  in  anger. 

Or  the  bloody  battle-car 

Of  some  Christian  king  at  war. 

1  'Tis  the  spirits  of  my  Fathers 
Mutt'ring  vengeance  in  the  skies; 


THE    LAST    TASCHASTAS. 


And  the  flashing  of  the  lightning 
Is  the  anger  of  their  eyes, 
Bidding  us  in  battle  rise," 

Cried  the  war-chief,  now  uprising, 
Naked  all  above  the  waist. 
While  a  belt  of  shells  and  silver 
Held  his  tamoos  to  its  place, 
And  the  war-paint  streaked  his  face. 

Women  melted  from  the  council, 
Boys  crept  backward  out  of  sight, 
Till  alone  a  wall  of  warriors 
In  their  paint  and  battle-plight 
Sat  reflecting  back  the  light. 

"  O  my  Fathers  in  the  storm-cloud!" 
(Red  arms  tossing  to  the  skies, 
While  the  massive  walls  of  granite 
Seem'd  to  shrink  to  half  their  size, 
And  to  mutter  strange  replies) — 

"  Soon  we  come,  O  angry  Fathers, 
Down  the  darkness  you  have  cross'd: 
Speak  for  hunting-grounds  there  for  us; 
Those  you  left  us  we  have  lost — 
Gone  like  blossoms  in  a  frost. 

"Warriors!"  (and  his  arms  fell  folded 
On  his  tawny  swelling  breast, 
While  his  voice,  now  low  and  plaintive 
As  the  waves  in  their  unrest, 
Touching  tenderness  confess'd). 

"Where  is  Wrotto,  wise  of  counsel, 
Yesterday  here  in  his  place  ? 
A  brave  lies  dead  down  in  the  valley, 
Last  brave  of  his  line  and  race, 
And  a  Ghost  sits  on  his  face. 

"  Where  his  boy  the  tender-hearted, 
With  his  mother  yestermoru  ? 
Lo!  a  wigwam  door  is  darken'd, 
Aiid  a  mother  moiirns  forlorn, 
With  her  long  locks  toss'd  and  torn. 

"Lo!  our  daughters  have  been  gather'd 

From  among  us  by  the  foe, 

Like  the  lilies  they  once  gather'd 


In  the  spring-time  all  aglow 
From  the  banks  of  living  snow. 

11  Through  the  land  where  we  for  ages 
Laid  the  bravest,  dearest  dead, 
Grinds    the    savage   white    man's  plow 
share 

Grinding  sires'  bones  for  bread — 
We  shall  give  them  blood  instead. 

"I  saw  white  skulls  in  a  furrow, 
And  around  the  cursed  plowshare 
Clung  the  flesh  of  my  own  children, 
And  my  mother's  tangled  hair 
Trailed  along  the  furrow  there. 

' '  Warriors !   braves  \   I  cry  for  vengeance ! 
And  the  dim  ghosts  of  the  dead 
Unavenged  do  wail  and  shiver 
In  the  storm  cloud  overhead, 
And  shoot  arrows  battle-red." 

Then  he  ceased,  and  sat  among  them, 
With  his  long  locks  backward  strowu; 
They  as  mute  as  men  of  marble, 
He  a  king  upon  the  throne, 
And  as  still  as  any  stone. 

Then  uprose  the  war  chief's  daughter, 
Taller  than  the  tassell'd  corn, 
Sweeter  than  the  kiss  of  morning, 
Sad  as  some  sweet  star  of  morn. 
Half  defiant,  half  forlorn. 

Robed  in  skins  of  striped  panther 
Lifting  loosely  to  the  air 
With  a  face  a  shade  of  sorrow 
And  black  eyes  that  said,  Beware! 
Nestled  in  a  storm  or  hair; 

With  her  striped  robes  around  her, 
Fasten'd  by  an  eagle's  beak, 
Stood  she  by  the  stately  chieftain, 
Proud  and  pure  as  Shasta's  peak, 
As  she  ventured  thus  to  speak: 

"  Must  the  tomahawk  of  battle 

Be  unburied  where  it  lies, 

O,  last  war  chief  of  Taschastas  ? 


THE    LAST    TASCHASTAS. 


33 


Must  the  smoke  of  battle  rise 
Like  a  storm  cloud  in  the  skies  ? 

"  True,  some  wretch  has  laid  a  brother 
With  his  swift  feet  to  the  sun, 
But  because  one  bough  is  broken, 
Must  the  broad  oak  be  undone? 
All  the  fir  trees  fell'd  as  one? 

"  True,  the  braves  have  faded,  wasted 
Like  ripe  blossoms  in  the  rain, 
But  when  we  have  spent  the  arrows, 
Do  we  twang  the  string  in  vain, 
And  then  snap  the  bow  in  twain  ?" 

Like  a  vessel  in  a  tempest 
Shook  the  warrior,  wild  and  grim, 
As  he  gazed  out  in  the  midnight, 
As  to  things  that  beckon'd  him, 
And  his  eyes  were  moist  and  dim. 

Then  he  turn'd,  and  to  his  bosom 
Battle-scarr'd,  and  strong  as  brass, 
Tenderly  the  warrior  press'd  her 
As  if  she  were  made  of  glass, 
Murmuring,  "  Alas!  alas! 

"  Loua  Ellah!  Spotted  Lily! 
Streaks  of  blood  shall  be  the  sign, 
On  their  cursed  and  mystic  pages, 
Representing  me  and  mine! 
By  Tonatiu's  fiery  shrine! 

' '  When  the  grass  shall  grow  untrodden 
In  my  war  path,  and  the  plow 
Shall  be  grinding  through  this  canon 
Where  my  braves  are  gather'd  now, 
Still  shall  they  record  this  vow: 

"War  and  vengeance!  rise,  my  warrior, 
Rise  and  shout  the  battle  sign, 
Ye  who  love  revenge  and  glory! 
Ye  for  peace,  in  silence  pine, 
And  no  more  be  braves  of  mine." 

Then  the  war  yell  roll'd  and  echoed 
As  they  started  from  the  ground, 
Till  an  eagle  from  his  cedar 


Starting,  answer'd  back  the  sound, 
And  flew  circling  round  and  round. 

"  Enough,  enough,  my  kingly  father," 
And  the  glory  of  her  eyes 
Flash'd  the  valor  and  the  passion 
That  may  sleep  but  never  dies, 
As  she  proudly  thus  replies: 

"  Can  the  cedar  be  a  willow, 
Pliant  and  as  little  worth? 
It  shall  stand  the  king  of  forests, 
Or  its  fall  shall  shake  the  earth, 

Desolating  heart  and  hearth!" 

**•**#» 

in. 

##*#*» 

From  cold  east  shore  to  warm  west  sea 

The  red  men  followed  the  red  sun, 

And  faint  and  failing  fast  as  he, 

They  knew  too  well  their  race  was  run. 

This  ancient  tribe,  press'd  to  the  wave, 

There  fain  had  slept  a  patient  slave, 

And  died  out  as  red  embers  die 

From  flames  that  once  leapt  hot  and  high; 

But,  roused  to  anger,  half  arose 

Around  that  chief,  a  sudden  flood, 

A  hot  and  hungry  cry  for  blood; 

Half  drowsy  shook  a  feeble  hand, 

Then  sank  back  in  a  tame  repose, 

And  left  him  to  his  fate  and  foes, 

A  stately  wreck  upon  the  strand. 

*  *  *  *  *  « 

His  eye  was  like  the  lightning's  wing, 
His  voice  was  like  a  rushing  flood; 
And  when  a  captive  bound  he  stood 
His  presence  look'd  the  perfect  king. 

'Twas  held  at  first  that  he  should  die: 
I  never  knew  the  reason  why 
A  milder  council  did  prevail, 
Save  that  we  shrank  from  blood,  and  save 
That  brave  men  do  respect  the  brave. 
Down  sea  sometimes  there  was  a  sail, 
And  far  at  sea,  they  said,  an  isle, 
And  he  was  sentenced  to  exile; 
In  open  boat  upon  the  sea 


34 


THE    LAST    TASCHASTAS. 


To  go  the  instant  on  the  main, 

And  never  under  penalty 

Of  death  to  touch  the  shore  again. 

A  troop  of  bearded  buckskiun'd  men 

Bore  him  hard-hurried  to  the  wave, 

Placed  him  swift  in  the  boat;  and  then 

Swift  pushing  to  the  bristling  sea, 

His  daughter  rush'd  down  suddenly, 

Threw  him  his  bow,  leapt  from  the  shore 

Into  the  boat  beside  the  brave, 

And  sat  her  down  and  seized  the  oar, 

And  never  question'd,  made  replies, 

Or  moved  her  lips,  or  raised  her  eyes. 

His  breast  was  like  a  gate  of  brass, 
His  brow  was  like  a  gather'd  storm; 
There  is  no  chisell'd  stone  that  has 
So  stately  and  complete  a  form, 
In  sinew,  arm,  and  every  part, 
In  all  the  galleries  of  art. 

Gray,  bronzed,  and  naked  to  the  waist, 
He  stood  half  halting  in  the  prow, 
With  quiver  bare  and  idle  bow. 
The  warm  sea  fondled  with  the  shore, 
And  laid  his  white  face  to  the  sands. 
His  daughter  sat  with  her  sad  face 
Bent  on  the  wave,  with  her  two  hands 
Held  tightly  to  the  dripping  oar; 
And  as  she  sat,  her  dimpled  knee 
Bent  lithe  as  wand  or  willow  tree, 
So  round  and  full,  so  rich  and  free, 
That  no  one  would  have  ever  known 
That  it  had  either  joint  or  bone. 

Her  eyes  were  black,  her  face  was  brown, 
Her  breasts  were  bare  and  there  fell  down 
Such  wealth  of  hair,  it  almost  hid 
The  two,  in  its  rich  jetty  fold— 
Which  I  had  sometime  fain  forbid, 
They  were  so  richer,  fuller  far 
Than  any  polish'd  bronzes  are, 
And  richer  hued  than  any  gold. 
On  her  brown  arms  and  her  brown  hands 
Were  bars  of  gold  and  golden  bands, 
Rough  hammer 'd  from  the  virgin  ore, 
So  heavy,  they  could  hold  no  more. 


I  wonder  now,  I  wonder'd  then, 
That  men  who  fear'd  not  gods  nor  men 
Laid  no  rude  hands  at  all  on  her, — 
I  think  she  had  a  dagger  slid 
Down  in  her  silver'd  wampum  belt; 
It  might  have  been,  instead  of  hilt, 
A  flashing  diamond  hurry-hid 
That  I  beheld— I  could  not  know 
For  certain,  we  did  hasten  so; 
And  1  know  now  less  sure  than  then: 
Deeds  strangle  memories  of  deeds, 
Red  blossoms  wither,  choked  with  weeds, 
And  years  drown  memories  of  men. 
Some  things   have  happened  since— and 

then 
This  happen 'd  years  and  years  ago. 

»  Go,  go!"  the  captain  cried,  and  smote 
With  sword  and  boot  the  swaying  boat, 
Until  it  quiver'd  as  at  sea 
And  brought  the  old  chief  to  his  knee. 
He  turn'd  his  face,  and  turning  rose 
With  hand  raised  fiercely  to  his  foes: 
44  Yes,  I  will  go,  last  of  my  race, 
Push'd  by  you  robbers  ruthlessly 
Into  the  hollows  of  the  sea, 
From  this  my  last,  last  resting-place. 
Traditions  of  my  fathers  say 
A  feeble  few  reach'd  for  this  land, 
And  we  reach'd  them  a  welcome  hand 
Of  old,  upon  another  shore; 
Now  they  are  strong,  we  weak  as  they, 
And  they  have  driven  us  before 
Their  faces,  from  that  sea  to  this: 
Then  marvel  not  if  we  have  sped 
Sometime  an  arrow  as  we  fled, 
So  keener  than  a  serpent's  kiss." 

He  turn'd  a  time  unto  the  sun 
That  lay  half  hidden  in  the  sea, 
As  in  his  hollows  rock'd  asleep, 
All  trembled  and  breathed  heavily; 
Then  arch'd  his  arm,  as  you  have  done, 
For   sharp   masts   piercing   through   the 

deep. 

No  shore  or  kind  ship  met  his  eye, 
Or  isle,  or  sail,  or  anything, 


THE    LAST    TASCHASTAS. 


35 


Save  white  sea  gulls  on  dipping  wing, 
And  mobile  sea  and  molten  sky. 

"Farewell!— push  seaward,    child!"  he 

cried, 

And  quick  the  paddle-strokes  replied. 
Like  lightning  from  the  panther-skin, 
That  bound  his  loins  round  about 
He  snatch'd  a  poison'd  arrow  out, 
That  like  a  snake  lay  hid  within, 
And  twang'd  his  bow.     The  captain  fell 
Prone  on  his  face,  and  such  a  yell 
Of  triumph  from  that  savage  rose 
As  man  may  never  hear  again. 
He  stood  as  standing  on  the  main, 
The  topmast  main,  in  proud  repose, 
And  shook  his  clench'd  fist  at  his  foes, 
And  call'd,  and  cursed  them  every  one. 
He  heeded  not  the  shouts  and  shot 
That  follow'd  him,  but  grand  and  grim 
Stood  up  against  the  level  sun; 
And,  standing  so,  seem'd  in  his  ire 
So  grander  than  some  ship  on  fire. 

And  when  the  sun  had  left  the  sea, 
That  laves  Abrup,  and  Blanco  laves, 


And  left  the  land  to  death  and  me, 
The  only  thing  that  I  could  see 
Was,  ever  as  the  light  boat  lay 
High  lifted  on  the  white-back'd  waves, 
A  head  as  gray  and  toss'd  as  they. 

We    raised    the    dead,    and    from    his 

hands 
Pick'd   out  some  shells,    clutched   as  he 

lay 

And  two  by  two  bore  him  away, 
And  wiped  his  lips  of  blood  and  sands. 

We  bent  and  scooped  a  shallow  home, 
And  laid  him  warm-wet  in  his  blood, 
Just  as  the  lifted  tide  a-flood 
Came  charging  in  with  mouth  a-foam: 
And  as  we  turn'd,  the  sensate  thing 
Reached  up,  lick'd  out  its  foamy  tongue, 
Lick'd  out  its  tongue  and  tasted  blood; 
The  white  lips  to  the  red  earth  clung 
An  instant,  and  then  loosening 
All  hold  just  like  a  living  thing, 
Drew  back  sad-voiced  and  shuddering, 
All  stained  with  blood,  a  striped  flood. 


Tc'hastas;  a  name  given  to  King  John  by  the  French,  a  corruption  of  chaste;  for  he  was  a  pure,  just  man  and 
a  great  warrior.  He  was  kiug  of  the  Rouge  (Red)  River  Indians  of  Oregon,  and  his  story  is  glorious  with  great 
deeds  in  defense  of  his  people.  When  finally  overpowered  he  and  his  son  Moses  were  put  on  a  ship  at  Port 
Orford  and  sent  to  Fort  Alcatraz  in  the  Golden  Gate.  In  mid-ocean,  these  two  Indians,  in  irons,  rose  up,  and, 
after  a  bloody  fight,  took  the  ship.  But  one  had  lost  a  leg,  the  other  an  arm,  and  so  they  finally  had  to  let  loose 
the  crew  and  soldiers  tumbled  into  the  hold  and  surrender  themselves  again;  for  the  ship  was  driving  helpless  in  a 
storm  toward  the  rocks.  The  king  died  a  prisoner,  but  his  son  escaped  and  never  again  surrendered.  He  lives 
alone  near  Yreka  and  is  known  as  "Prince  Peg-leg  Moses"  A  daughter  of  the  late  Senator  Nesmith  sends  me  a 
picture,  taken  in  1896,  of  the  king's  devoted  daughter,  Princess  Mary,  who  followed  his  fortunes  in  all  his  battles. 
She  must  be  nearly  one  hundred  years  old.  I  remember  her  as  an  old  woman  full  forty  years  ago,  tall  as  a  soldier, 
and  most  terrible  in  council.  I  have  tried  to  picture  her  and  her  people  as  I  once  saw  them  in  a  midnight  camp 
before  the  breaking  out  of  the  war;  also  their  actions  and  utterances,  so  like  some  of  the  old  Israelite  councils  ai:d 
prophecies.  This  was  the  leading  piece  in  my  very  first  book,  "Specimens."  published  in  Oregon  in  1867-8,  if  I 
remember  rightly. 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA 


JOAQUIN  MURIETTA. 

Glintings  of  day  in  the  darkness, 
Flashings  of  Jlint  and  of  steel, 

Blended  in  gossamer  texture 
The  ideal  and  the  real, 

Limn'd  like  the  phantom  ship  shadow, 
Crowding  up  under  the  keel. 


1  stand  beside  the  mobile  sea, 
And  sails  are  spread,  and  sails  are  furl'd; 
From  farthest  corners  of  the  world, 
And  fold  like  white  wings  wearily. 
Some  ships  go  up,  and  some  go  down 
In  haste,  like  traders  in  a  town. 

Afar  at  sea  some  white  ships  flee, 
With  arms  stretch'd  like  a  ghost's  to  me, 
And  cloud-like  sails  are  blown  and  curl'd, 
Then  glide  down  to  the  under  world. 
As  if  blown  bare  in  winter  blasts 
Of  leaf  and  limb,  tall  naked  masts 
Are  rising  from  the  restless  sea. 
I  seem  to  see  them  gleam  and  shine 
With  clinging  drops  of  dripping  brine. 
Broad  still  brown  wings  flit  here  and  there, 
Thin  sea-blue  wings  wheel  everywhere, 
And  white  wings  whistle  through  the  air; 
I  hear  a  thousand  sea  gulls  call. 
And  San  Francisco  Bay  is  white 
And  blue  with  sail  and  sea  and  light. 

Behold  the  ocean  on  the  beach 
Kneel  lowly  down  as  if  in  prayer, 
I  hear  a  moan  as  of  despair, 
While  far  at  sea  do  toss  and  reach 
Some  things  so  like  white  pleading  hands. 
The  ocean's  thin  and  hoary  hair 
Is  trail'd  along  the  silver'd  sands, 
At  every  sigh  and  sounding  moan. 
The  very  birds  shriek  in  distress 
And  sound  the  ocean's  monotone. 
'Tis  not  a  place  for  mirthfulness, 
But  meditation  deep,  and  prayer, 


And  kneelings  on  the  salted  sod, 
Where  man  must  own  his  littleness, 
And  know  the  mightiness  of  God. 

Dared  I  but  say  a  prophecy, 
As  sang  the  holy  men  of  old, 
Of  rock-built  cities  yet  to  be 
Along  these  shining  shores  of  gold, 
Crowding  athirst  into  the  sea, 
What  wondrous  marvels  might  be  told! 
Enough,  to  know  that  empire  here 
Shall  burn  her  loftiest,  brightest  star; 
Here  art  and  eloquence  shall  reign, 
As  o'er  the  wolf-rear'd  realm  of  old; 
Here  learn'd  and  famous  from  afar, 
To  pay  their  noble  court,  shall  come, 
And  shall  not  seek  or  see  in  vain, 
But  look  and  look  with  wonder  dumb. 

Afar  the  bright  Sierras  lie 
A  swaying  line  of  snowy  white, 
A  fringe  of  heaven  hung  in  sight 
Against  the  blue  base  of  the  sky. 

I  look  along  each  gaping  gorge, 
I  hear  a  thousand  sounding  strokes 
Like  giants  rending  giant  oaks, 
Or  brawny  Vulcan  at  his  forge; 
I  see  pickaxes  flash  and  shine; 
Hear  great  wheels  whirling  in  a  mine. 
Here  winds  a  thick  and  yellow  thread, 
A  moss'd  and  silver  stream  instead; 
And  trout  that  leap'd  its  rippled  tide 
Have  turn'd  upon  their  sides  and  died. 

Lo!  when  the  last  pick  in  the  mine 
Lies  rusting  red  with  idleness, 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA, 


37 


And  rot  you  cabins  in  the  mold, 
And  wheels  no  more  croak  in  distress, 
And  tall  pines  reassert  command, 
Sweet  bards  along  this  sunset  shore 
Their  mellow  melodies  will  pour; 
Will  charm  as  charmers  very  wise, 
Will  strike  the  harp  with  master  hand, 
Will  sound  unto  the  vaulted  skies, 
The  valor  of  these  men  of  old — 
These  mighty  men  of  'Forty-nine; 
Will  sweetly  sing  and  proudly  say, 
Long,  long  agone  there  was  a  day 
When  there  were  giants  in  the  land. 
***** 

Now  who  rides  rushing  on  the  sight 
Hard  down  yon  rocky  long  defile, 
Swift  as  an  eagle  in  his  flight, 
Fierce  as  a  winter's  storm  at  night 
Blown  from  the  bleak  Sierra's  height! 
Such  reckless  rider! — I  do  ween 
No  mortal  man  his  like  has  seen. 
And  yet,  but  for  his  long  serape 
All  flowing  loose,  and  black  as  crape, 
And  long  silk  locks  of  blackest  hair 
All  streaming  wildly  in  the  breeze, 
You  might  believe  him  in  a  chair, 
Or  chatting  at  some  country  fair 
He  rides  so  grandly  at  his  ease. 

But  now  he  grasps  a  tighter  rein, 
A  red  rein  wrought  in  golden  chain, 
And  in  his  tapidaros  stands. 
Turns,  shouts  defiance  at  his  foe. 
And  now  he  calmly  bares  his  brow 
As  if  to  challenge  fate,  and  now 
His  hand  drops  to  his  saddle-bow 
And  clutches  something  gleaming  there 
As  if  to  something  more  than  dare. 

The  stray  winds  lift  the  raven  curls, 
Soft  as  a  fair  Castilian  girl's, 
And  bare  a  brow  so  manly,  high, 
Its  every  feature  does  belie 
The  thought  he  is  compell'd  to  fly; 
A  brow  as  open  as  the  sky 
On  which  you  gaze  and  gaze  again 


As  on  a  picture  you  have  seen 
And  often  sought  to  see  in  vain, 
A  brow  of  blended  pride  and  pain, 
That  seems  to  hold  a  tale  of  woe 
Or  wonder,  that  you  fain  would  know 
A  boy's  brow,  cut  as  with  a  knife, 
With  many  a  dubious  deed  in  life. 

Again  he  grasps  his  glitt'ring  rein, 
And,  wheeling  like  a  hurricane, 
Defying  wood,  or  stone,  or  flood, 
Is  dashing  down  the  gorge  again. 
Oh,  never  yet  has  prouder  steed 
Borne  master  nobler  in  his  need! 
There  is  a  glory  in  his  eye 
That  seems  to  dare  and  to  defy 
Pursuit,  or  time,  or  space,  or  race. 
His  body  is  the  type  of  speed, 
While  from  his  nostril  to  his  heel 
Are  muscles  as  if  made  of  steel. 

What  crimes  have  made  that  red  hand 

red? 

What  wrongs  have  written  that  young  face 
With  lines  of  thought  so  out  of  place? 
Where  flies   he?    And  from  whence  has 

fled? 

And  what  his  lineage  and  race? 
What  glitters  in  his  heavy  belt, 
And  from  his  furr'd  cantenas  gleam? 
What  on  his  bosom  that  doth  seem 
A  diamond  bright  or  dagger's  hilt  ? 
The  iron  hoofs  that  still  resound 
Like  thunder  from  the  yielding  ground 
Alone  reply;  and  now  the  plain, 
Quick  as  you  breathe  and  gaze  again, 

Is  won,  and  all  pursuit  is  vain. 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  stand  upon  a  mountain  rim, 
Stone-paved  and  pattern'd  as  a  street; 
A  rock-lipp?d  canon  plunging  south, 
As  if  it  were  earth's  open'd  mouth, 
Yawns  deep  and  darkling  at  my  feet; 
So  deep,  so  distant,  and  so  dim 
Its  waters  wind,  a  yellow  thread, 
And  call  so  faintly  and  so  far, 
I  turn  aside  my  swooning  head. 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA, 


I  feel  a  fierce  impulse  to  leap 
Adown  the  beetling  precipice, 
Like  some  lone,  lost,  uncertain  star; 
To  plunge  into  a  place  unknown, 
And  win  a  world,  all,  all  my  own; 
Or  if  I  might  not  meet  that  bliss, 
At  least  escape  the  curse  of  this. 

I  gaze  again.    A  gleaming  star 
Shines  back  as  from  some  mossy  well 
Reflected  from  blue  fields  afar. 
Brown  hawks  are  wheeling  here  and  there, 
And  up  and  down  the  broken  wall 
Clings  clumps  of  dark  green  chapparal, 
While    from   the   rent    rocks,    grey   and 

bare; 
Blue  junipers  hang  in  the  air. 

Here,  cedars  sweep  the  stream  and  here, 
Among  the  boulders  moss'd  and  brown 
That  time  and  storms  have  toppled  down 
From  towers  undefiled  by  man, 
Low  cabins  nestle  as  in  fear, 
And  look  no  taller  than  a  span. 
From  low  and  shapeless  chimneys  rise 
Some  tall  straight  columns  of  blue  smoke, 
And  weld  them  to  the  bluer  skies; 
While  sounding  down  the  somber  gorge 
I  hear  the  steady  pickax  stroke, 
As  if  upon  a  flashing  forge. 

***** 

Another  scene,  another  sound! — 
Sharp  shots  are  fretting  through  the  air, 
Red  knives  are  flashing  everywhere, 
And  here  and  there  the  yellow  flood 
Is  purpled  with  warm  smoking  blood. 
The    brown    hawk    swoops    low    to   the 

ground, 

And  nimble  chipmunks,  small  and  still, 
Dart  striped  lines  across  the  sill 
That  manly  feet  shall  press  no  more. 
The  flume  lies  warping  in  the  sun, 
The  pan  sits  empty  by  the  door, 
The  pickax  on  its  bedrock  floor, 
Lies  rusting  in  the  silent  mine. 
There  comes  no  single  sound  nor  sign 


Of  life,  beside  yon  monks  in  brown 
That  dart  their  dim  shapes  up  and  down 
The  rocks  that  swelter  in  the  sun; 
But  dashing  down  yon  rocky  spur, 
Where    scarce    a    hawk    would    dare    to 

whin*, 

A  horseman  holds  his  reckless  flight. 
He  wears  a  flowing  black  capote, 
While  over  all  do  flow  and  float 
Long  locks  of  hair  as  dark  as  night, 
And  hands  are  red  that  erst  were  white. 

All  up  and  down  the  land  to-day 
Black  desolation  and  despair 
It  seems  have  set  and  settled  there, 
With  none  to  frighten  them  away. 
Like  sentries  watching  by  the  way 
Black  chimneys  topple  in  the  air, 
And  seem  to  say,  Go  back,  beware! 
While  up  around  the  mountain's  rim 
Are  clouds  of  smoke,  so  still  and  grim 
They  look  as  they  are  fasten'd  there. 

A  lonely  stillness,  so  like  death, 
So  touches,  terrifies  all  things, 
That  even  rooks  that  fly  o'erhead 
Are    hush'd,    and    seem    to    hold    their 

breath, 

To  fly  with  muffled  wings, 
And  heavy  as  if  made  of  lead. 
Some  skulls  that  crumble  to  the  touch, 
Some  joints  of  thin  and  chalk-like  bone, 
A  tall  black  chimney,  all  alone, 
That  leans  as  if  upon  a  crutch. 
Alone  are  left  to  mark  or  tell, 
Instead  of  cross  or  cryptic  stone, 
Where   Joaquin    stood   and    brave    men 
fell. 

The  sun  is  red  and  flush'd  and  dry, 
And  fretted  from  his  weary  beat 
Across  the  hot  and  desert  sky, 
And  swollen  as  from  overheat, 
And  failing  too;  for  see,  he  sinks 
Swift  as  a  ball  of  burnish'd  ore: 
It  may  be  fancy,  but  methinks 
He  never  fell  so  fast  before. 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA, 


39 


I  hear  the  neighing  of  hot  steeds, 
I  see  the  marshaling  of  men 
That  silent  move  among  the  trees 
As  busily  as  swarming  bees 
With  step  and  stealthiness  profound, 
On  carpetings  of  spindled  weeds, 
Without  a  syllable  or  sound 
Save  clashing  of  their  burnish'd  arms, 
Clinking  dull,  deathlike  alarms — 
Grim  bearded  men  and  brawny  men 
That  grope  among  the  ghostly  trees. 
Were  ever  silent  men  as  these? 
Was  ever  somber  forest  deep 
And  dark  as  this  ?    Here  one  might  sleep 
While  all  the  weary  years  went  round, 
Nor  wake  nor  weep  for  sun  or  sound. 

A  stone's  throw  to  the  right,  a  rock 
Has  rear'd  his  head  among  the  stars — 
An  island  in  the  upper  deep — 
And  on  his  front  a  thousand  scars 
Of  thunder's  crash  and  earthquake's  shock 
Are  seam'd  as  if  by  sabre's  sweep 
Of  gods,  enraged  that  he  should  rear 
His  front  amid  their  realms  of  air. 

What  moves  along  his  beetling  brow, 
So  small,  so  indistinct  and  far, 
This  side  yon  blazing  evening  star, 
Seen    through    that    redwood's    shifting 

bough? 

A  lookout  on  the  world  below  ? 
A  watcher  for  the  friend — or  foe  ? 
This  still  troops  sentry  it  must  be, 
Yet  seems  no  taller  than  my  knee. 

But  for  the  grandeur  of  this  gloom, 
And  for  the  chafing  steeds'  alarms, 
And  brown  men's  sullen  clash  of  arms, 
This  were  but  as  a  living  tomb. 
These  weeds  are  spindled,  pale  and  white, 
As  if  nor  sunshine,  life,  nor  light 
Had  ever  reach'd  this  forest's  heart. 
Above,  the  redwood  boughs  entwine 
As  dense  as  copse  of  tangled  vine — 
Above,  so  fearfully  afar, 
It  seems  as  'twere  a  lesser  sky, 


A  sky  without  a  moon  or  star, 

The  moss'd  boughs  are  so  thick  and  high. 

At  every  lisp  of  leaf  I  start! 

Would  I  could  hear  a  cricket  trill, 

Or  hear  yon  sentry  from  his  hill, 

The  place  does  seem  so  deathly  still. 

But  see  a  sudden  lifted  hand 

From  one  who  still  and  sullen  stands, 

With  black  serape  and  bloody  hands, 

And  coldly  gives  his  brief  command. 

They  mount — away!    Quick  on  his  heel 
He  turns  and  grasps  his  gleaming  steel — 
Then  sadly  smiles,  and  stoops  to  kiss 
An  upturn'd  face  so  sweetly  fair, 
So  sadly,  saintly,  purely  rare, 
So  rich  of  blessedness  and  bliss! 
I  know  she  is  not  flesh  and  blood, 
But  some  sweet  spirit  of  this  wood; 
I  know  it  by  her  wealth  of  hair, 
And  step  on  the  unyielding  air; 
Her  seamless  robe  of  shining  white, 
Her  soul-deep  eyes  of  darkest  night; 
But  over  all  and  more  than  all 
That  can  be  said  or  can  befall, 
That  tongue  can  tell  or  pen  can  trace, 
That  wonderous  witchery  of  face. 

Between  the  trees  I  see  him  stride 
To  where  a  red  steed  fretting  stands 
Impatient  for  his  lord's  commands: 
And  she  glides  noiseless  at  his  side. 

One  hand  toys  with  her  waving  hair, 
Soft  lifting  from  her  shoulders  bare; 
The  other  holds  the  loosen'd  rein, 
And  rests  upon  the  swelling  mane 
That  curls  the  curved  neck  o'er  and  o'er, 
Like  waves  that  swirl  along  the  shore 
He  hears  the  last  retreating  sound 
Of  iron  on  volcanic  stone, 
That  echoes  far  from  peak  to  plain, 
And  'neath  the  dense  wood's  sable  zone, 
He  peers  the  dark  Sierras  down. 

His  hand  forsakes  her  raven  hair, 
His  eyes  have  an  unearthly  glare; 


4o 


JOAQUIN    MURIETTA, 


She  shrinks  and  shudders  at  his  side 

Then  lifts  to  his  her  moisten'd  eyes, 

And  only  looks  her  sad  replies. 

A  sullenness  his  soul  enthralls, 

A  silence  born  of  hate  and  pride; 

His  fierce  volcanic  heart  so  deep 

Is  stirr'd,  his  teeth,  despite  his  will, 

Do  chatter  as  if  in  a  chill; 

His  very  dagger  at  his  side 

Does  shake  and  rattle  in  its  sheath, 

As  blades  of  brown  grass  in  a  gale 

Do  rustle  on  the  frosted  heath: 

And  yet  he  does  not  bend  or  weep, 

But  sudden  mounts,  then  leans  him  o'er 

To    breathe    her    hot    breath    but    once 

more. 

I  do  not  mark  the  prison'd  sighs, 
I  do  not  meet  the  moisten'd  eyes, 
The  while  he  leans  him  from  his  place 
Down  to  her  sweet  uplifted  face. 

A  low  sweet  melody  is  heard 
Like  cooing  of  some  Balize  bird, 
So  fine  it  does  not  touch  the  air, 
So  faint  it  stirs  not  anywhere; 
Faint  as  the  falling  of  the  dew, 
Low  as  a  pure  unutter'd  prayer, 
The  meeting,  mingling,  as  it  were, 
In  that  one  long,  last,  silent  kiss 
Of  souls  in  paradisal  bliss. 


"  You   must  not,   shall  not,  shall  not 

go! 

To  die  and  leave  me  here  to  die! 
Enough  of  vengeance,  Love  and  I? 
I  die  for  home  and — Mexico." 

He  leans,  he  plucks  her  to  his  breast, 
As  plucking  Mariposa's  flower, 
And  now  she  crouches  in  her  rest 
As  resting  in  some  rosy  bower. 

Erect,  again  he  grasps  the  rein! 
I  see  his  black  steed  plunge  and  poise 
And  beat  the  air  with  iron  feet, 
And  curve  his  noble  glossy  neck, 
And  toss  on  high  his  swelling  mane, 
And  leap — away!  he  spurns  the  rein! 
He  flies  so  fearfully  and  fleet, 
But  for  the  hot  hoofs'  ringing  noise 
'Twould  seem  as  if  he  were  on  wings. 

And    they    are    gone!      Gone    like 

breath, 

Gone  like  a  white  sail  seen  at  night 
A  moment,  and  then  lost  to  sight; 
Gone  like  a  star  you  look  upon, 
That  glimmers  to  a  bead,  a  speck, 
Then  softly  melts  into  the  dawn, 
And  all  is  still  and  dark  as  death, 
And  who  shall  sing,  for  who  may  know 
That  mad,  glad  ride  to  Mexico  ? 


The  third  poem  in  my  first  London  book,  if  I  remember— you  see  I  never  kept  my  books  about  me,  nor  in 
deed  any  books  now,  and  have  for  present  use  only  a  copy  that  has  been  many  times  revised  and  cut  down- 
was  called  " California, "but  it  was  called  "Joaquin'  in  the  Oregon  book.  And  it  was  from  this  that  I  was,  in 
derision,  called  "Joaquin."  I  kept  the  name  and  the  poem  too,  till  both  were  at  least  respected.  But  my 
brother,  who  had  better  judgment  and  finer  taste  than  I,  thought  it  too  wild  and  bloody;  and  so  by  degrees  it 
has  been  allowed  to  almost  entirely  disappear,  except  this  fragment,  although  a  small  book  of  itself,  to  begin 
with. 


1NA. 


41 


INA. 


Sad  song  of  the  wind  in  the  mountains 
And  the  sea  wave  of  grass  on  the  plain, 
That  breaks  in  bloom  foam  by  the  fountains, 
And  forests,  that  breaketh  again 
On  the  mountains,  as  breaketh  a  main. 

Bold  thoughts  that  were  strong  as  the  grizzlies, 
Now  weak  in  their  prison  of  words ; 
Bright  fancies  that  Jlash'd  like  the  glaciers, 
Now  dimm'd  like  the  luster  of  birds, 
And  butterflies  huddled  as  herds. 

Sad  symphony,  wild,  and  unmeasured, 
Weed  warp,  and  woof  woven  in  strouds 
Strange  truths  that  a  stray  soul   had  treasured, 
Truths  seen  as  through  folding  of  shrouds 
Or  as  stars  through  the  rolling  of  clouds. 


SCENE  I. 

A  Hacienda  near  Tezcuco,  Mexico.  Young 
DON  CARLOS  alone,  looking  out  on  the 
moonlit  mountain. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Popocatapetl  looms  lone  like  an  island, 
Above  white-cloud  waves   that  break  up 

against  him; 
Around  him  white  buttes  in  the  moonlight 

are  flashing 
Like  silver  tents  pitch'd  in  the  fair  fields 

of  heaven 
While   standing  in  line,  in  their   snows 

everlasting, 
Flash  peaks,  as  my  eyes  into  heaven  are 

lifted, 
Like  mile-stones  that  lead  to    the    city 

Eternal. 

Ofttime  when  the  sun  and  the  sea  lay 

together, 

Red-welded  as  one,  in  their  red  bed  of 
lovers, 


Embracing  and  blushing  like  loves  newlj 

wedded, 
I  have  trod  on  the  trailing  crape  fringes  of 

twilight, 
And  stood  there  and  listen'd,  and  lean'd 

with  lips  parted, 
Till  lordly  peaks  wrapp'd  them,  as  chill 

night  blew  over, 
In  great  cloaks  of  sable,  like  proud  somber 

Spaniards, 
And  stalk'd  from  my  presence  down  night's 

corridors. 


When  the  red-curtained  West  has  bent 

red  as  with  weeping 
Low  over  the  couch  where  the  prone  day 

lay  dying, 
I  have  stood  with  brow  lifted,  confronting 

the  mountains 
That  held  their  white  faces  of  snow  in  the 

heavens, 
And  said,  "It  is  theirs  to  array  them  so 

purely, 


42 


INA. 


Because  of  their  nearness  to  the  temple 

eternal;" 
And  childlike  have  said,  "They  are  fair 

resting  places 
For  the  dear  weary  dead  on  their  way  up 

to  heaven." 

But  my  soul  is  not  with  you  to-night, 

mighty  mountains: 

It  is  held  to  the  levels  of  earth  by  an  angel 
Far  more  than  a  star,  earth  fallen  or  un- 

fall'n, 
Yet   fierce  in   her  follies  and  headstrong 

and  stronger 
Than  streams  of  the  sea  running  in  with 

the  billows. 

Very  well.    Let  him  woo,  let  him  thrust 

his  white  whiskers 
And  lips  pale  and  purple  with  death,  in 

between  us; 
Let  her  wed,  as  she  wills,  for  the  gold  of 

the  gray  beard. 
I  will  set  my  face  for  you,  O  mountains, 

my  brothers, 
For  I  yet  have  my  honor,  my  conscience 

and  freedom, 
My  fleet-footed  mustang,  and  pistols  rich 

silverd; 
I  will  turn  as  the  earth  turns  her  back  on 

the  sun, 
But  return  to  the  light  of  her  eyes  never 

more, 
While  noons  have  a  night  and  white  seas 

have  a  shore. 

INA,  approaching. 

INA. 
"  I  have  come,  dear  Don  Carlos,  to  say  you 

farewell, 
I  shall  wed  with  Don  Castro  at  dawn  of 

to-morrow, 
And   be  all   his   own— firm,    honest    and 

faithful. 
I   have   promised  this  thing;  that  I  will 

keep  my  promise 


You  who  do  know  me  care  never  to  ques 
tion. 
I  have  mastered  myself  to  say  this  thing 

to  you; 
Hear  me:  be  strong,  then,  and  say  adieu 

bravely; 
The  world  is  his  own  who  will  brave  its 

bleak  hours. 
Dare,  then,  to  confront  the  cold  days  in 

their  column; 
As   they  march  down  upon   you,  stand, 

hew  them  to  pieces, 
One  after  another,  as  you  would  a  fierce 

foeman, 
Till   not   one  abideth  between  two  true 

bosoms." 
[DON  CARLOS,  with  a  laugh  of  scorn,  flies 

from  the  veranda,  mounts  horse,  and 

disappears.] 

INA  (looking  out  into  the  night,  after  a  long 
silence). 

How  doleful  the  night  hawk  screams  in 
the  heavens, 

How  dismally  gibbers  the  gray  coyote! 

Afar  to  the  south  now  the  turbulent  thun 
der, 

Mine  equal,  my  brother,  my  soul's  one 
companion, 

Talks  low  in  his  sleep,  like  a  giant  deep 
troubled; 

Talks  fierce  in  accord  with  my  own  stormy 
spirit. 

SCENE  II. 

Sunset  on  a  spur  q/  Mount  Hood.  LAMONTE 
contemplates  the  scene. 

LAMONTE. 

A  flushed  and  weary  messenger  a-west 
Is  standing  at  the  half-closed  door  of  day, 
As  he  would  say,  Good  night;  and  now  his 

bright 

Red  cap  he  tips  to  me  and  turns  his  face. 
Were  it  an  unholy  thing  to  say,  an  angel 

now 
Beside  the  door  stood  with  uplifted  seal? 


INA. 


43 


Behold  the  door  seal'd  with  that  blood  red 

seal 
Now  burning,  spreading  o'er  the  mighty 

West. 

Never  again  shall  that  dead  day  arise 
Therefrom,  but  must  be  born  and  come 

anew. 

The  tawny,  solemn  Night,  child  of  the 

East, 
Her  mournful  robe  trails  o'er  the  distant 

woods, 
And  comes  this  way  with  firm  and  stately 

step. 
Afront,    and    very    high,     she    wears    a 

shield, 

A  plate  of  silver,  and  upon  her  brow 
The  radiant  Venus  burns,  a  pretty  lamp. 
Behold!  how  in  her  gorgeous  flow  of  hair 
Do  gleam  a  million  mellow  yellow  gems, 
That   spill  their   molten   gold  upon   the 

dewy  grass. 
Now  throned   on   boundless   plains,  and 

gazing  down 
So    calmly    on    the    red-seal'd    tomb   of 

day, 
She    rests    her  form  against  the  Rocky 

Mountains, 
And   rules  with   silent   power  a  peaceful 

world. 

'Tis  midnight  now.  The  bent  and  broken 

moon, 
All  batter'd,  black,  as  from   a  thousand 

battles, 

Hangs  silent  on  the  purple  walls  of  heaven. 
The    angel   warrior,   guard  of    the    gates 

eternal, 

In  battle-harness  girt,  sleeps  on  the  field: 
But  when  to-morrow  comes,  when  wicked 

men 

That  fret  the  patient  earth  are  all  astir, 
He  will  resume   his   shield,   and,  facing 

earthward, 
The  gates  of  heaven  guard  from  sins  of 

earth. 


'Tis  morn.     Behold  the  kingly  day  now 

leaps 
The  eastern  wall  of  earth,  bright  sword 

in  hand, 

And  clad  in  flowing  robe  of  mellow  light, 
Like  to  a  king  that  has  regain  'd  his  throne, 
He  warms  his  drooping  subjects  into  joy, 
That  rise  renewed  to  do  him  fealty, 
And  rules  with  pomp  the  universal  world. 


CARLOS  ascends  the  mountain,  gesticu 
lating  and  talking  to  himself, 

DON  CARLOS. 
Oh,  for  a  name  that  black-eyed  maids 

would  sigh 

And  lean  with  parted  lips  at  mention  of; 
That  I  should  seem  so  tall  in  minds  of  men 
That  I  might  walk  beneath  the  arch  of 

heaven, 

And  pluck  the  ripe  red  stars  as  I  pass'd  on, 
As  favor'd  guests   do  pluck   the  purple 

grapes 

That  hang  above  the  humble  entrance  way 
Of  palm-thatch'd  mountain  inn  of  Mexico. 

Oh,  I  would  give  the  green  leaves  of  my 

life 
For  something   grand,  for  real  and   un 

dream  'd  deeds! 
To    wear    a    mantle,    broad    and    richly 

gemm'd 
As  purple   heaven  fringed  with   gold   at 

sunset; 

To  wear  a  crown  as  dazzling  as  the  sun, 
And,    holding    up    a   scepter    lightning- 

charged, 

Stride  out  among  the  stars  as  I  once  strode 
A  barefoot  boy  among  the  buttercups. 

Alas!     I  am  so  restless.     There  is  that 
Within  me  doth  rebel  and  rise  against 
The  all  I  am  and  half  I  see  in  others; 
And  were't  not  for  contempt  of  coward  act 
Of  flying  all  defeated  from  the  world, 
As  if  I  feared  and  dared  not  face  its  ills, 
I  should   ere  this   have  known,    known 
more  or  less 


44 


INA. 


Than  any  flesh  that  frets  this  sullen  earth. 
I  know  not  where  such  thoughts  will  lead 

me  to: 
I  have  had  fear  that  they  would  drive  me 

mad, 
And  then  have  flattered  my  weak  self,  and 

said 
The  soul's  outgrown  the  body— yea,  the 

soul 
Aspires  to  the  stars,  and  in  its  struggles 

upward 
Make  the  dull  flesh  quiver  as  an  aspen. 

LA  MONTE. 
What  waif  is  this    cast  here  upon  my 

shore, 
From  seas  of  subtle  and  most  selfish  men? 

DON  CARLOS. 

Of  subtle  and  most  selfish   men!— ah, 

that's  the  term! 

And  if  you  be  but  earnest  in  your  spleen, 
And  other  sex  across  man's  shoulders  lash, 
I'll  stand  beside  you  on  this  crag  and 

howl 
And  hurl  my  clenched  fists  down  upon 

their  heads, 
Till  I  am  hoarse  as  yonder  cataract. 

LA  MONTE. 
Why,  no,  my  friend,  I'll  not  consent  to 

that. 

No  true  man  yet  has  ever  woman  cursed. 
And  I — I  do  not  hate  my  fellow  man, 
For  man  by  nature  bears  within  himself 
Nobility  that  makes  him  half  a  god; 
But  as  in  somewise  he  hath  made  him 
self, 

His  universal  thirst  for  gold  and  pomp, 
And  purchased  fleeting  fame  and  bubble 

honors, 
Forgetting    good,    so    mocking    helpless 

age, 

And  rushing  roughshod  o'er  lowly  merit, 
I  hold  him  but  a  sorry  worm  indeed; 
And  so  have  turn'd  me  quietly  aside 
To  know  the  majesty  of  peaceful  woods. 


DON  CARLOS  (as  if  alone). 
The  fabled  font  of  youth  led  many  fools, 

Zealous  in  its  pursuit,  to  hapless  death; 

And  yet  this  thirst  for  fame,  this  hot  am 
bition, 

This  soft-toned  syren-tongue,  enchanting 
Fame, 

Doth  lead  me  headlong  on  to  equal  folly, 

Like  to  a  wild  bird  charm'd  by  shining 
coils 

And    swift    mesmeric    glance  of    deadly 
snake: 

I  would  not  break  the  charm,  but  win  a 
world 

Or  die  with  curses  blistering  my  lips. 

LAMONTE. 

Give  up  ambition,  petty  pride — 
By  pride  the  angels  fell. 

DON  CARLOS. 

By   pride  they  reached    a    place  from 
whence  to  fall. 

LAMONTE. 
You  startle  me!     I  am  unused  to  hear 

Men  talk  these  fierce  and  bitter  thoughts; 
and  yet 

In  closed  recesses  of  my  soul  was  once 

A  dark  and  gloomy  chamber  where  they 
dwelt. 

Give    up    ambition  —  yea,     crush    such 
thoughts 

As  you  would  crush  from  hearth  a  scor 
pion  brood; 

For,    mark  me  well,  they'll  get  the  mas 
tery, 

And  drive  you   on  to  death— or   worse, 
across 

A   thousand    ruin'd  homes    and    broken 
hearts. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Give  up  ambition!    Oh,  rather  than  to 
die 

And   glide  a  lonely,   nameless,   shivering 
ghost 


IN  A. 


45 


Down  time's  dark  tide  of  utter  nothing 
ness, 

I'd  write  a  name  in  blood  and  orphans' 
tears. 

The  temple-burner  wiser  was  than  kings. 

LA  MONTE. 
And  would  you  dare  the  curse  of  man 


a-nd— 


DON  CARLOS. 


Dare  the  curse  of  man! 
I'd  dare  the  fearful  curse  of  God! 
I'd  build  a  pyramid  of  whitest  skulls, 
And    step    therefrom    unto    the    spotted 

moon, 
And  thence  to  stars,  and  thence  to  central 

suns. 
Then   with   one  grand  and  mighty  leap 

would  land 

Unhinder'd  on  the  shining  shore  of  heaven, 
And,    sword  in    hand,    unbared  and   un- 

abash'd, 
Would  stand  bold  forth  in  presence  of  the 

God 

Of  gods,  and  on  the  jewel'd  inner  side 
The  walls    of   heaven,   carve  with    keen 

Damascus  steel, 

And,  highest  up,  a  grand  and  titled  name 
That  time  nor  tide  could  touch  or  tarnish 


ever. 


LAMONTE. 


Seek  not  to  crop  above  the  heads  of  men 
To  be  a  better  mark  for  envy's  shafts. 
Come  to  my  peaceful  home,  and  leave  be 
hind 

These  stormy  thoughts  and  daring  aspira 
tions. 

All  earthly  power  is  but  a  thing  compara 
tive. 

Is  not  a  petty  chief  of  some  lone  isle, 
With  half  a  dozen  nude  and  starving  sub 
jects, 

As  much  a  king  as  he  the  Czar  of  Husk? 
In  yonder  sweet  retreat  and  balmy  place 
I'll  abdicate,  and  you  be  chief  indeed. 


There  you  will  reign  and  tell  me  of  the 

world, 
Its  life  and  lights,  its    sins   and   sickly 

shadows. 

The  pheasant  will  reveille  beat  at  morn, 
And  rouse  us  to  the  battle  of  the  day. 
My  swarthy  subjects  will  in  circle  sit, 
And,  gazing  on  your  noble  presence,  deem 
You  great  indeed,  and  call  you  chief  of 

chiefs; 

And,  knowing  no  one  greater  than  yourself 
In  all  the  leafy  borders  of  your  realm, 
'Gainst  what  can  pride  or  poor  ambition 

chafe  ? 

'Twill  be  a  kingdom  without  king,  save 

you, 

More  broad  than  that  the  cruel  Cortes  won, 
With  subjects  truer  than  he  ever  knew, 
That  know  no  law  but  only  nature's  law, 
And  no  religion  know  but  that  of  love. 
"Inhere  truth  and  beauty  are,  for  there  is 

Nature, 

Serene  and  simple.    She  will  be  our  priest 
ess, 

And  in  her  calm  and  uncomplaining  face 
We  two  will  read  her  rubric  and  be  wise. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Why,  truly  now,  this  fierce  and  broken 

land, 
Seen  through  your  eyes,  assumes  a  fairer 

shape. 
Lead  up,  for  you  are  nearer  God  than  I. 

SCENE  III. 

INA,  in  black,  alone.     Midnight. 
INA. 

I  weep?  I  weep?  I  laugh  to  think  of  it! 
I  lift  my  dark  brow  to  the  breath  of  the 

ocean, 
Soft  kissing  me  now  like  the  lips  of  my 

mother, 
And  laugh  low  and  long  as   I  crush  the 

brown  grasses, 


46 


INA. 


To  think  I  should  weep!  Why,  I  never 
wept — never, 

Not  even  in  punishments  dealt  me  in 
childhood! 

Yea,  all  of  my  wrongs  and  my  bitterness 
buried 

In  my  brave  baby  heart,  all  alone  and  un 
friended. 

And  I  pitied,  with  proud  and  disdain  full 
est  pity, 

The  weak  who  would  weep,  and  I  laugh'd 
at  the  folly 

Of  those  who  could  laugh  and  make  merry 
with  playthings. 

Nay,  I  will  not  weep  now  over  that  I 
desired. 

Desired?  Yes:  I  to  myself  dare  confess  it, 

Ah,  too,  to  the  world  should  it  question  too 
closely, 

And  bathe  me  and  sport  in  a  deep  sea  of 

candor. 

Let   the  world  be  deceived;  it  insists 
upon  it: 

Let  it  bundle  me  round  in  its  black  woe- 
garments; 

But  I,  self  with  self— my  free  soul  fear 
less— 

Am  frank  as  the  sun,  nor  the  toss  of  a 
copper 

Care  I  if  the  world  call  it  good  or  evil. 

I  am  glad  to-night,  and  in  new-born  free 
dom 

Forget  all  earth  with  my  old  companions,— 

The  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  moon-clad 
ocean. 

I  am  face  to  face  with  the  stars  that  know 
me, 

And  gaze  as  1  gazed  in  the  eyes  of  my 
mother, 

Forgetting  the  city  and  the  coarse  things 
in  it; 

For  there's  naught  but  God  in  the  shape 
of  mortal, 

Save  one — my  wandering,  wild  boy-lover — 

That  I  esteem  worth  a  stale  banana. 


The  hair  hangs  heavy  and  is  warm  on 

my  shoulder, 
And  is  thick  with  odors  of  balm  and  of 

blossom, 
The  great  bay  sleeps  with  the  ships  on  her 

bosom; 
Through  the  Golden  Gate,  to  the  left  hand 

yonder, 
The  white  sea  lies  in  a  deep  sleep,  bfeath- 

ing, 
The  father  of  melody,  mother  of  measure. 

SCENE  IV 

A  wood  by  a  rivulet  on  a  spur  of  Mount 
Hood,  overlooking  the  Columbia,  LA- 
MONTE  and  DON  CARLOS,  on  their  way  to 
the  camp,  are  reposing  under  the  shadoiv 
of  the  forest.  Some  deer  are  observed 
descending  to  the  brook,  and  DON  CARLOS 
seizes  his  rifle. 

LA  MONTE. 

Nay,  nay,  my  friend,  strike  not  from  your 

covert, 
Strike  like  a  serpent  in   the  grass  well 

hidden? 
What,  steal  into  their  homes,  and,  when 

they,  thirsting, 
And    all    unsuspecting,    come    down    in 

couples 
And  dip  brown   muzzles    in  the  mossy 

brink, 
Then  shoot  them  down  without  chance  to 

fly- 

The  only  means  that  God  has  given  them, 
Poor,    unarm'd    mutes,    to    baffle    man's 

cunning? 

Ah,  now  I  see  you  had  not  thought  of  this! 
The  hare  is  fleet,  and  is  most  quick  at 

sound, 
His  coat  is  changed  with   the  changing 

fields; 
Yon  deer  turn  brown  when  the  leaves  turn 

brown; 

The  dog  has  teeth,  the  cat  has  talons, 
And  man  has  craft  and  sinewy  arms; 


IN  A. 


47 


All  things  that  live  have  some  means  of 

defense 
All,  all — save  only  fair  lovely  woman. 

DON  CARLOS. 

Nay,  she  has  her  tongue;  is  armed  to 
the  teeth. 

LA  MONTE. 

Thou  Timon,  what  can  'scape  your  bit 
terness  ? 
But    for  this   sweet   content   of    Nature 

here, 
Upon  whose  breast  we  now  recline  and 

rest, 

Why,  you  might  lift  your  voice  and  rail  at 
her! 

DON  CARLOS. 

Oh,    I  am  out   of  patience  with  your 

faith! 
What!    She  content  and  peaceful,  uncom- 

plaj  ning  ? 

I've  seen  her  fretted  like  a  lion  caged, 
Chafe  .like  a  peevish  woman  cross'd  and 

churl'd, 
Tramping  and  foaming  like  a  whelpless 

bear; 
Have  seen  her  weep  till  earth  was  wet  with 

tears, 
Then  turn  all  smiles — a  jade  that  won  her 

point  ? 
Have    seen   her   tear   the   hoary   hair  of 

ocean, 
While  he,  himself  full  half  a  world,  would 

moan 
And  roll  and  toss  his  clumsy  hands  all 

day 

To  earth  like  some  great  helpless  babe, 
Rude-rock'd   and  cradled  by  an   unkind 

nurse, 
Then  stain  her  snowy  hem  with  salt-sea 

tears; 
And   when   the  peaceful,    mellow   moon 

came  forth, 
To  walk  and  meditate  among  the  blooms 


That  make  so  blest  the  upper  purple  fields, 
This  wroth  dyspeptic  sea  ran  after  her 
With  all  his  soul,  as  if  to  pour  himself, 
All  sick  and  helpless,  in  her  snowy  lap. 
Content!   Oh,  she  has  crack'd  the  ribs  of 

earth 
And  made  her  shake  poor  trembling  man 

from  off 
Her  back,   e'en  as   a  grizzly  shakes  the 

hounds; 

She  has  upheaved  her  rocky  spine  against 
The  flowing  robes  of  the  eternal  God. 

LAMONTE. 
There  once  was  one  of  nature  like  to 

this: 

He  stood  a  barehead  boy  upon  a  cliff 
Pine-crown'd,  that  hung  high  o'er  a  bleak 

north  sea 
His  long  hair  stream 'd  and  flashed  like 

yellow  silk, 
His   sea-blue  eyes   lay  deep  and  still  as 

lakes 
O'erhung  by  mountains  arch'd  in   virgin 

snow; 

And  far  astray,  and  friendless  and  alone, 
A  tropic  bird   blown  through  the  north 

frost  wind, 
He  stood  above  the  sea  in  the  cold  white 

moon, 

His  thin  face  lifted  to  the  flashing  stars. 
He  talk'd  familiarly  and  face  to  face 
With  the  eternal  God,  in  solemn  night, 
Confronting  Him  with  free  and  flippant 

air 
As   one   confronts    a    merchant   o'er  his 

counter, 

And  in  vehement  blasphemy  did  say: 
"God,    put    aside  this  world — show  me 

another! 
God,  this  world's  but  a  cheat — hand  down 

another! 

I  will  not  buy — not  have  it  as  a  gift. 
Put   this  aside  and  hand  me  down  an 
other— 
Another,  and  another,  still  another, 


INA. 


Till  I  have  tried   the  fairest  world  that 

hangs 
Upon  the  walls  and  broad  dome  of  your 

shop. 

For  I  am  proud  of  soul  and  regal  born, 
And  will  not  have  a  cheap  and  cheating 

world." 

DON  CARLOS. 
The  noble  youth!    So  God  gave  him 

another? 

LAMONTE. 
A  bear,  as  in  old  time,  came  from  the 

woods 
And  tare  him  there  upon  that  storm-swept 

cliff— 
A    grim    and    grizzled    bear,    like    unto 

hunger. 
A  tall    ship  sail'd   adown   the  sea   next 

morn, 
And,    standing  with   his  glass  upon   the 

prow. 

The  captain  saw  a  vulture  on  a  cliff, 
Gorging,  and  pecking,  stretching  his  long 

neck 
Bracing  his    raven   plumes    against    the 

wind, 
Fretting    the    tempest    with    his     sable 

feathers. 

A  Young  POET  ascends  the  mountain  and 
approaches. 

DON  CARLOS. 
Ho!  ho!  whom  have  we  here?    Talk  of 

the  devil, 

And   he's  at   hand.    Say,  who  are  you, 
and  whence? 

POET. 
I  am  a  poet,  and  dwell  down  by  the  sea. 

DON  CARLOS. 
A  poet!    a  poet,   forsooth!     A  hungry 

fool! 

Would  you  know  what  it  means  to  be  a 
poet  now? 


It  is  to  want  a  friend,  to  want  a  home, 
A  country,  money, — ay,  to  want  a  meal. 
It  is  not  wise  to  be  a  poet  now, 
For,    oh,    the    world   it   has    so    modest 

grown 

It  will  not  praise  a  poet  to  his  face, 
But  waits  till  he  is  dead  some  hundred 

years, 
Then  uprears  marbles  cold  and  stupid  as 

itself.  [POET  rises  to  go.] 

DON  CARLOS. 
Why,  what's  the  haste?     You'll  reach 

there  soon  enough. 

POET. 
Eeach  where? 

DON  CARLOS. 
The  inn  to  which  all  earthly  roads  do 

tend: 
The    "neat    apartments    furnish'd — see 

within;" 
The  "  furnish'd  rooms  for  quiet,  single 

gentlemen;" 
The  narrow   six-by-two   where  you   will 

lie 
With  cold  blue  nose  up-pointing  to  the 

grass, 

Labell'd    and    box'd,    and    ready  all   for 
shipment. 

POET   (loosening  hair    and   letting  fall  a 

mantle.) 
Ah  me!  my  Don  Carlos,   look  kindly 

upon  me! 
With  my  hand  on  your  arm  and  my  dark 

brow  lifted 
Full  level  to  yours,  do  yon  not  now  know 

me? 
'Tis  I,  your  INA,  whom  you  loved  by  the 

ocean, 

In  the  warm-spiced  winds   from  the  far 
Cathay. 

DON  CARLOS  (bitterly). 
With  the  smell  of  the  dead  man  still 
upon  you! 


IN  A. 


49 


Your  dark  hair  wet  from  his  death-damp 
forehead! 

You  are  not  my  Ina,  for  she  is  a  mem 
ory. 

A  marble  chisell'd,  in  my  heart's  dark 
chamber 

Set  up  for  ever,  and  naught  can  change 
her; 

And  you  are  a  stranger,  and  the  gulf 
between  us 

Is  wide  as  the  plains,  and  as  deep  as 
Pacific. 

And  now,  good  night.  In  your  serape 
folded 

Hard  by  in  the  light  of  the  pine-knot 
fire, 

Sleep  you  as  sound  as  you  will  be  wel 
come; 

And  on  the  morrow  —  now  mark  me, 
madam — 

When  to-morrow  comes,  why,  you  will 
turn  you 

To  the  right  or  left  as  did  Father  Abram. 

Good  night,  for  ever  and  for  aye,  good 
by; 

My  bitter  is  sweet  and  your  truth  is  a  lie. 

INA  (letting  go  his  arm  and  stepping  back). 
Well,  then!  'tis  over,  and  'tis  well  thus 
ended; 

I  am  well  escaped  from  my  life's  devo 
tion. 

The  waters  of  bliss  are  a  waste  of  bitter- 


The  day  of  joy  I  did  join  hands  over, 
As  a  bow  of  promise  when  my  years  were 

weary, 

And  set  high  up  as  a  brazen  serpent 
To  look  upon  when  I  else  had  fainted 
In  burning  deserts,  while  you  sipp'd  ices 
And  snowy  sherbets,  and  roam'd  unfet- 

ter'd, 

Is  a  deadly  asp  in  the  fruit  and  flowers 
That  you  in  your  bitterness  now  bear  to 

me; 
But  its  fangs  unfasten  and  it  glides  down 

from  me, 
From  a  Cleopatra  of  cold  white  marble. 

I  have  but  done  what  I  would  do  over, 
Did  I  find  one  worthy  of  so  much  devo 
tion; 
And,  standing  here  with  my  clean  hands 

folded 

Above  a  bosom  whose  crime  is  courage, 
The  only  regret  that  my  heart  discovers 
Is  that  I  should  do  and  have  dared  so 

greatly 
For  the  love  of  one  who  deserved  so  little. 

Nay!  say  no  more,  nor  attempt  to  ap 
proach  me!  . 

This  ten  feet  line  lying  now  between  us 

Shall  never  be  less  while  the  land  has 
measure. 

See!  night  is  forgetting  the  east  in  the 
heavens; 

The  birds  pipe  shrill  and  the  beasts  howl 
answer. 


EVEN    SO. 


EVEN  SO. 

Sierras,  and  eternal  tents 
Of  snow  that  flash  o'er  battlements 
Of  mountains  !    My  land  of  the  sun, 
Am  I  not  true  ?  have  I  not  done 
All  things  for  thine,  for  thee  alone, 
0  sun-land,  sea-land,  thou  mine  own? 
Be  my  reward  some  little  place 
To  pitch  my  tent,  some  tree  and  vine 
Where  I  may  sit  with  lifted  face, 
And  drink  the  sun  as  drinking  wine: 
Where  sweeps  the  Oregon,  and  ivhere 
White  storms  caroused  on  perfumed  air. 


In  the  shadows  a-west  of  the  sunset 
mountains, 

Where  old-time  giants  had  dwelt  and 
peopled, 

And  built  up  cities  and  castled  battle 
ments, 

And  rear'd  up  pillars  that  pierced  the 
heavens, 

A  poet  dwelt,  of  the  book  of  Nature— 

An  ardent  lover  of  the  pure  and  beautiful, 

Devoutest  lover  of  the  true  and  beautiful. 

Profoundest  lover  of  the  grand  and  beau 
tiful— 

With  heart  all  impulse,  and  intensest  pas 
sion, 

Who  believed  in  love  as  in  God  eternal— 

A  dream  while  the  waken'd  world  went 
over, 

An  Indian  summer  of  the  singing  seasons; 

And  he  sang  wild  songs  like  the  wind  in 
cedars, 

Was  tempest-toss'd  as  the  pines,  yet  ever 

As  fix'd  in  faith  as  they  in  the  moun 
tains. 

He  had  heard  a  name  as  one  hears  of  a 

princess, 
Her  glory  had  come  unto  him  in  stories; 


From  afar  he  had  look'd  as  entranced  upon 

her; 

He  gave  her  name  to  the  wind  in  meas 
ures, 
And  he  heard  her  name  in  the  deep-voiced 

cedars, 
And  afar  in  the  winds  rolling  on  like  the 

billows, 
Her   name  in   the   name   of  another  for 

ever 
Gave    all    his    numbers    their    grandest 

strophes; 
Enshrined  her  image  in  his  heart's  high 

temple, 
And   saint-like   held  her,  too   sacred  for 

mortal. 


He  came  to  fall  like  a  king  of  the  forest 
Caught  in  the  strong  storm  arms  of  the 

wrestler; 
Forgetting   his   songs,  his  crags  and  his 

mountains, 
And   nearly   his   God,  in  his   wild   deep 

passion; 
And   when   he  had   won  her  and  turn'd 

him  homeward, 


EVEN    SO. 


With   the  holiest  pledges  love  gives  its 

lover, 
The  mountain  route  was  as  strewn  with 

roses. 

Can  high  love  then  be  a  thing  unholy, 

To  make  us  better  and  bless'd  supremely? 

The  day  was  fix'd  for  the  feast  and  nup 
tials; 

He  crazed  with  impatience  at  the  tardy 
hours ; 

He  flew  in  the  face  of  old  Time  as  a  tyrant; 

He  had  fought  the  days  that  stood  still 
between  them, 

Fought  one  by  one,  as  you  fight  with  a 
foeman, 

Had  they  been  animate  and  sensate  beings. 

At  last  then  the  hour  came  coldly  for 
ward. 

"When  Mars  was  trailing  his  lance  on  the 
mountains 

He  rein'd  his  steed  and  look'd  down  in 
the  canon 

To  where  she  dwelt,  with  a  heart  of  fire. 

He  kiss'd  his  hand  to  the  smoke  slow 
curling, 

Then  bow'd  his  head  in  devoutest  blessing. 

His  spotted  courser  did  plunge  and  fret 
him 

Beneath  his  gay  silken-fringed  carona 

And  toss  his  neck  in  a  black-mane  ban- 
ner'd; 

Then  all  afoam,  plunging  iron-footed, 

Dash'd  him  down  with  a  wild  impatience. 

A  coldness  met  him,  like  the  breath  of 

a  cavern, 
As     he    joyously    hasten'd    across    the 

threshold. 
Bhe    came,   and    coldly    she    spoke    and 

scornful, 

In  answer  to  warm  and  impulsive  passion. 
All  things  did  array  them  in  shapes  most 

hateful, 
And  life  did  seem  but  a  jest  intolerable. 


He  dared  to  question  her  why  this 
estrangement: 

She  spoke  with  a  strange  and  stiff  indif 
ference, 

And  bade  him  go  on  all  alone  life's  journey. 

Then  stern  and  tall  he  did  stand  up 
before  her, 

And  gaze  dark-brow'd  through  the  low 
narrow  casement. 

For  a  time,  as  if  warring  in  thought  with 
a  passion; 

Then,  crushing  hard  down  the  hot  welling 
bitterness, 

He  folded  his  form  in  a  sullen  silentness 

And  turned  for  ever  away  from  her  pres 
ence; 

Bearing  his  sorrow  like  some  great  burden, 

Like  a  black  nightmare  in  his  hot  heart 
muffled; 

With   his   faith   in   the   truth  of  woman 

broken. 

*  *  «  *  * 

'Mid   Theban    pillars,   where  sang   the 

Pindar, 
Breathing    the    breath    of    the    Grecian 

islands, 

Breathing  in  spices  and  olive  and  myrtle, 
Counting  the  caravans,  curl'd  and  snowy, 
Slow  journeying  over  his  head  to  Mecca 
Or   the  high   Christ  land  of    most  holy 

memory, 
Counting  the  clouds  through  the  boughs 

above  him, 
That  brush'd  white  marbles  that  time  had 

chisel'd 

And  rear'd  as  tombs  on  the  great  dead  city, 
Letterd  with  solemn  but  unread  moral — 
A  poet  rested  in  the  red-hot  summer. 
He  took  no  note  of  the  things  about  him, 
But  dream'd  and  counted  the  clouds  above 

him; 
His  soul  was  troubled,  and  his  sad  heart's 

Mecca 

Was  a  miner's  home  far  over  the  ocean, 
Banner'd   by  pines   that  did  brush   blue 

heaven. 


EVEN    SO. 


When  the  sun  went  down  on  the  bronzed 
Morea, 

He  read  to  himself  from  the  lines  of  sor 
row 

That  came  as  a  wail  from  the  one  he 
worshipp'd, 

Sent  over  the  seas  by  an  old  companion: 

They  spoke  no  word  of  him,  or  remem 
brance. 

And  he  was  most  sad,  for  he  felt  forgotten, 

And  said:  "  In  the  leaves  of  her  fair 
heart's  album 

She  has  cover'd  my  face  with  the  face  of 
another. 

Let  the  great  sea  lift  like  a  wall  between 
us, 

High-back'd,  with  his  mane  of  white 
storms  for  ever — 

I  shall  learn  to  love,  I  shall  wed  my 
sorrow, 

I  shall  take  as  a  spouse  the  days  that  are 
perish'd; 

I  shall  dwell  in  a  land  where  the  march  of 
genius 

Made  tracks  in  marble  in  the  days  of 
giants; 

I  shall  sit  in  the  ruins  where  sat  the 
Marius, 

Gray  with  the  ghosts  of  the  great  de 
parted." 

And  then  he  said  in  the  solemn  twi 
light  .  .  . 

"Strangely    wooing    are     yon    worlds 

above  us, 

Strangely  beautiful  is  the  Faith  of  Islam, 
Strangely  sweet  are  the  songs  of  Solomon, 
Strangely  tender  are  the  teachings  of 

Jesus, 

Strangely  cold  is  the  sun  on  the  moun 
tains, 
Strangely  mellow   is   the  moon    on    old 

ruins, 

Strangely  pleasant  are  the  stolen  waters, 
Strangely  lighted  is  the  North  night  re 
gion, 


Strangely  strong  are  the  streams  in  the 

ocean, 

Strangely  true  are  the  tales  of  the  Orient, 
But  stranger   than   all  are    the   ways   of 

women." 

His  head  on  his  hands  and  his  hands  on 

the  marble, 
Alone  in   the   midnight   he  slept   in  the 

ruins; 
And  a  form  was  before  him  white  mantled 

in  moonlight, 
And   bitter   he   said    to   the  one   he   had 

worshipp'd — 

"  Your  hands  in  mine,  your  face,  your 

eyes 

Look  level  into  mine,  and  mine 
Are  not  abashed  in  anywise 
As  eyes  were  in  an  elden  syne. 
Perhaps  the  pulse  is  colder  now, 
And  blood  comes  tamer  to  the  brow 
Because  of  hot  blood  long  ago .... 

Withdraw  your  hand  ? Well,  be  it  so, 

And  turn  your  bent  head  slow  sidewise, 
For  recollections  are  as  seas 
That  come  and  go  m  tides,  and  these 
Are  flood  tides  filling  to  the  eyes. 

"  How  strange  that  you  above  the  vale 
And  I  below  the  mountain  wall 
Should  walk  and   meet!.. Why,   you   are 

pale!.. 
Strange  meeting  on  the  mountain  fringe!. . 

. . .  .More  strange  we  ever  met  at  all! 

Tides  come  and  go,  we  know  their  time; 
The  moon,  we  know  her  wane  or  prime; 
But  who  knows  how  the  heart  may  hinge? 

"  You  stand  before  me  here  to-night, 
But  not  beside  me,  not  beside — 
Are  beautiful,  but  not  a  bride. 
Some  things  I  recollect  aright, 
Though  full  a  dozen  years  are  done 
Since  we  two  met  one  winter  night — 
Since  I  was  crush'd  as  by  a  fall; 
For  I  have  watch 'd  and  pray'd  through  all 
The  shining  circles  of  the  sun. 


EVEN    SO. 


53 


"  I  saw  you  where  sad  cedars  wave; 
I  sought  you  in  the  dewy  eve 
When  shining  crickets  trill  and  grieve; 
You  smiled,  and  I  became  a  slave. 
A  slave!  I  worshipp'd  you  at  night, 
When  all  the  blue  field  blossom'd  red 
With  dewy  roses  overhead 
In  sweet  and  delicate  delight. 
I  was  devout.     I  knelt  that  night 
To  Him  who  doeth  all  things  well. 
I  tried  in  vain  to  break  the  spell; 
My  prison'd  soul  refused  to  rise 
And  image  saints  in  Paradise, 
While  one  was  here  before  my  eyes. 

"Some  things  are  sooner  marr'd  than 

made. 

A  frost  fell  on  a  soul  that  night, 
And  one  was  black  that  erst  was  white. 
And  you  forget  the  place— the  night! 
Forget  that  aught  was  done  or  said- 
Say  this  has  pass'd  a  long  decade — 
Say  not  a  single  tear  was  shed — 
Say  you  forget  these  little  things! 
Is  not  your  recollection  loth? 
Well,  little  bees  have  bitter  stings, 
And  I  remember  for  us  both. 

"No,  not  a  tear.     Do  men  complain? 
The  outer  wound  will  show  a  stain, 
And  we  may  shriek  at  idle  pain; 
But  pierce  the  heart,  and  not  a  word, 
Or  wail,  or  sign,  is  seen  or  heard. 

•'  I  did  not  blame— I  do  not  blame, 
My  wild  heart  turns  to  you  the  same, 
Such  as  it  is;  but  oh,  its  meed 
Of  faithfulness  and  trust  and  truth, 
And  earnest  confidence  of  youth, 
I  caution,  you,  is  small  indeed. 

14 1  follow'd  you,  I  worshipp'd  you 
And  I  would  follow,  worship  still; 
But  if  I  felt  the  blight  and  chill 
Of  frosts  in  my  uncheerful  spring, 
And  show  it  now  in  riper  years 
In  answer  to  this  love  you  bring- 


In  answer  to  this  second  love, 

This  wail  of  an  unmated  dove, 

In  cautious  answer  to  your  tears — 

You,  you  know  who  taught  me  disdain. 

But  deem  you  I  would  deal  you  pain  ? 

I  joy  to  know  your  heart  is  light, 

I  journey  glad  to  know  it  thus, 

And  could  I  dare  to  make  it  less  ? 

Yours — you  are  day,  but  I  am  night. 

"  God  knows  I  would  descend  to-day 
Devoutly  on  my  knees,  and  pray 
Your  way  might  be  one  path  of  peace 
Through  bending  boughs  and  blossom'd 

trees, 

And  perfect  bliss  through  roses  fair; 
But  know  you,  back — one  long  decade- 
How  fervently,  how  fond  I  pray'd  ? — 
What  was  the  answer  to  that  prayer? 

"The  tale  is  old,  and  often  told 
And  lived  by  more  than  you  suppose — 
The  fragrance  of  a  summer  rose 
Press'd  down  beneath  the  stubborn  lid, 
When  sun  and  song  are  hush'd  and  hid, 
And  summer  days  are  gray  and  old. 

1 '  We  parted  so.     Amid  the  bays 
And  peaceful  palms  and  song  and  shade 
Your  cheerful  feet  in  pleasure  stray'd 
Through  all  the  swift  and  shining  days. 

"  You  made  my  way  another  way, 
You  bade  it  should  not  be  with  thine — 
A  fierce  and  cheerless  route  was  mine: 
But  we  have  met,  to-night — to-day. 

"You  talk  of  tears — of  bitter  tears — 
And  tell  of  tyranny  and  wrong, 
And  I  re-live  some  stinging  jeers, 
Back,  far  back,  in  the  leaden  years. 
A  lane  without  a  turn  is  long, 
I  muse,  and  whistle  a  reply — 
Then  bite  my  lips  and  crush  a  sigh. 

"  You  sympathize  that  I  am  sad, 
I  sigh  for  you  that  you  complain, 


54 


EVEN    SO. 


I  shake  my  yellow  hair  in  vain, 
I  laugh  with  lips,  but  am  not  glad. 

. . . . "  His  was  a  hot  love  of  the  hours, 
And  love  and  lover  both  are  flown; 
Now  you  walk,  like  a  ghost,  alone. 
He  sipp'd  your  sunny  lips,  and  he 
Took  all  their  honey;  now  the  bee 
Bends  down  the  heads  of  other  flowers 
And  other  lips  lift  up  to  kiss . . . 
. .  .1  am  not  cruel,  yet  I  find 
A  savage  solace  for  the  mind 
And  sweet  delight  in  saying  this. . . 
Now  you  are  silent,  white,  and  you 
Lift  up  your  hands  as  making  sign, 
And  your  rich  lips  lie  thin  and  blue 
And  ashen . . .  .and  you  writhe,  and  you 
Breathe  quick  and  tremble ...  is  it  true 
The  soul  takes  wounds,  sheds  blood  like 
wine? 

..."  You  seem  so  most  uncommon  tall 
Against  the  lonely  ghostly  moon, 
That  hurries  homeward  oversoon, 
And  hides  behind  you  and  the  pines; 
And  your  two  hands  hang  cold  and  small, 
And  your  two  thin  arms  lie  like  vines, 
Or  winter  moonbeams  on  a  wall. 
. . .  What  if  you  be  a  weary  ghost, 
And  I  but  dream,  and  dream  I  wake? 
Then  wake  me  not,  and  my  mistake 
Is  not  so  bad;  let's  make  the  most 
Of  all  we  get,  asleep,  awake — 
And  waste  not  one  sweet  thing  at  all. 

God  knows  that,  at  the  best,  life  brings 
The  soul's  share  so  exceeding  small 
We  weary  for  some  better  things, 
And  hunger  even  unto  death. 
Laugh  loud,  be  glad  with  ready  breath, 
For  after  all  are  joy  and  grief 


Not  merely  matters  of  belief  ? 
And  what  is  certain  after  all, 
But  death,  delightful,  patient  death  ? 
The  cool  and  perfect,  peaceful  sleep, 
Without  one  tossing  hand,  or  deep 
Sad  sigh  and  catching  in  of  breath! 

"  Be  satisfied.     The  price  of  breath 
Is  paid  in  toil.     But  knowledge  is 
Bought  only  with  a  weary  care, 
And  wisdom  means  a  world  of  pain .... 
Well,  we  have  suffered,  will  again, 
And  we  can  work  and  wait  and  bear, 
Strong  in  the  certainty  of  bliss. 
Death  is  delightful:  after  death 
Breaks  in  the  dawn  of  perfect  day. 
Let  question  he  who  will:  the  May 
Throws  fragrance  far  beyond  the  wall. 

"  Death  is  delightful.    Death  is  dawn. 
Fame  is  not  much,  love  is  not  much, 
Yet  what  else  is  there  worth  the  touch 
Of  lifted  hand  with  dagger  drawn  ? 
So  surely  life  is  little  worth: 
Therefore  I  say,  Look  up;  therefore 
I  say,  One  little  star  has  more 
Bright  gold  than  all  the  earth  of  earth. 

"Yea,  we  must  labor,  plant  to  reap — 
Life  knows  no  folding  up  of  hands- 
Must  plow  the  soul,  as  plowing  lands; 
In  furrows  fashion'd  strong  and  deep. 
Life  has  its  lesson.     Let  us  learn 
The  hard,  long  lesson  from  the  birth, 
And  be  content;  stand  breast  to  breast, 
And  bear  and  battle  till  the  rest. 
Yet  I  look  to  yon  stars,  and  say: 
Thank  Christ,  ye  are  so  far  away 
That  when  I  win  you  I  can  turn 
And  look,  and  see  no  sign  of  earth. 


MYRRH. 


55 


MYRRH. 

Life  knows  no  dead  so  beautiful 
As  is  the  white  cold  cojfin'd  past; 
This  I  may  love  nor  be  betray' d: 
The  dead  are  faithful  to  the  last. 
I  am  not  spouseless—I  have  wed 
A  memory — a  life  that 's  dead. 


Farewell!  for  here  the  ways  at  last 
Divide — diverge,  like  delta'd  Nile, 
Which  after  desert  dangers  pass'd 
Of  many  and  many  a  thousand  mile, 
As  constant  as  a  column  stone, 
Seeks  out  the  sea,  divorced — alone. 

And  you  and  I  have  buried  Love, 
A  red  seal  on  the  coffin's  lid; 
The  clerk  below,  the  court  above, 
Pronounce  it  dead:  the  corpse  is  hid 
And  I  who  never  cross'd  your  will 
Consent. .  .that  you  may  have  it  still. 

Farewell!  a  sad  word  easy  said 
And  easy  sung,  I  think,  by  some. . . . 

I   clutch'd   my   hands,  I  turii'd  my 

head 

In  my  endeavor  and  was  dumb; 
And  when  I  should  have  said,  Farewell, 
I  only  murmur'd,  "This  is  hell." 

What  recks  it  now,  whose  was  the  blame? 
But  call  it  mine;  for  better  used 
Am  I  to  wrong  and  cold  disdain, 
Can  better  bear  to  be  accused 
Of  all  that  wears  the  shape  of  shame, 
Than  have  you  bear  one  touch  of  blame. 

I  set  my  face  for  power  and  place, 
My  soul  is  toned  to  sullenness, 
My  heart  holds  not  one  sign  nor  trace 
Of  love,  or  trust,  or  tenderness. 
But  you— your  years  of  happiness 
God  knows  I  would  not  make  them  less. 


And  you  will  come  some  summer  eve, 
When  wheel;*  the  white  moon  on  her  track, 
And  hear  the  plaintive  night-bird  grieve, 
And  heed  the  crickets  clad  in  black; 
Alone — not  far — a  little  spell, 
And  say,  "  Well,  yes,  he  loved  me  well;" 

And  sigh,  "  Well,  yes,  I  mind  me  now, 
None  were  so  bravely  true  as  he; 
And  yet  his  love  was  tame  somehow, 
It  was  so  truly  true  to  me; 
I  wish'd  his  patient  love  had  less 
Of  worship  and  of 'tenderness: 

"  I  wish  it  still,  for  thus  alone 
There  comes  a  keen  reproach  or  pain, 
A  feeling  I  dislike  to  own; 
Half  yearnings  for  his  voice  again, 
Half  longings  for  his  earnest  gaze, 
To  know  him  mine  always — always." 

•  •  *  *  • 

I  make  no  murmur;  steady,  calm, 
Sphinxlike  I  gaze  on  days  ahead. 
No  wooing  word,  no  pressing  palm, 
No  sealing  love  with  lips  seal-red, 
No  waiting  for  some  dusk  or  dawn, 
No  sacred  hour all  are  gone. 

I  go  alone;  no  little  hands 
To  lead  me  from  forbidden  ways, 
No  little  voice  in  other  lands 
To  cheer  through  all  the  weary  days, 
Yet  these  are  yours,  and  that  to  me 
Is  much  indeed ....  So  let  it  be . . 


MYRRH, 


....A  last    look    from    my    mountain 

wall .... 

I  watch  the  red  sun  wed  the  sea 
Beside  your  home. .  . .  the  tides  will  fall 
And  rise,  but  nevermore  shall  we 
Stand   hand  in   hand    and   watch    them 

flow, 
As  we  once  stood Christ!  this  is  so! 

But,  when  the  stately  sea  comes  in 
With  measured  tread  and  mouth  afoam, 
My  darling  cries  above  the  din, 
And  asks,  "  Has  father  yet  come  home?" 
Then  look  into  the  peaceful  sky, 

And  answers,  gently,  "  By  and  by." 

***** 

One  deep  spring  in  a  desert  sand, 
One  moss'd  and  mystic  pyramid, 
A  lonely  palm  on  either  hand, 
A  fountain  in  a  forest  hid, 
Are  all  my  life  has  realized 
Of  all  I  cherish'd,  all  I  prized: 

Of  all  I  dream'd  in  early  youth 
Of  love  by  streams  and  love-lit  ways, 
While  my  heart  held  its  type  of  truth 
Through  all  the  tropic  golden  days, 
And  I  the  oak,  and  you  the  vine, 
Clung  palm  in  palm   through   cloud   or 
shine. 

Some  time    when    clouds    hang    over 
head, 

(What  weary  skies  without  one  cloud!) 
You  may  muse  on  this  love  that's  dead, 
Muse  calm  when  not  so  cold  or  proud, 


And  say,  "  At  last  it  comes  to  me, 
That  none  was  ever  true  as  he." 

My  sin  was  that  I  loved  too  much — 
But  I  enlisted  for  the  war, 
Till  we  the  deep-sea  shore  should  touch, 
Beyond  Atlanta — near  or  far — 
And  truer  soldier  never  yet 
Bore  shining  sword  or  bayonet. 

I  did  not  blame  you — do  not  blame. 
The  stormy  elements  of  soul 
That  I  did  scorn  to  tone  or  tame, 
Or  bind  down  unto  dull  control 
In  full  fierce  youth,  they  all  are  yours, 
With  all  their  folly  and  their  force. 

God  keep  you  pure,  oh,  very  pure, 
God  give  you  grace  to  dare  and  do; 
God  give  you  courage  to  endure 
The  all  He  may  demand  of  you, — 
Keep  time  frosts  from  your  raven  hair, 
And  your  young  heart  without  a  care. 

I  make  no  murmur  nor  complain; 
Above  me  are  the  stars  and  blue 
Alluring  far  to  grand  refrain; 
Before,  the  beautiful  and  true, 
To  love  or  hate,  to  win  or  lose; 
Lo!  I  will  now  arise,  and  choose. 

But  should  you  sometime  read  a  sign, 
In  isles  of  song  beyond  the  brine, 
Then  you  will  think  a  time,  and  you 
Will  turn  and  say,   "  He  once  was  mine, 
Was  all  my  own;  his  smiles,  his  tears 
Were    mine — were    mine  for    years    and 
years." 


KIT    CARSON  S    RIDE. 


57 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 

Room!  room  to  turn  round  in,  to  breathe  and  be  free, 
To  grow  to  be  giant,  to  sail  as  at  sea 
With  the  speed  of  the  wind  on  a  steed  with  his  mane 
To  the  wind,  without  pathway  or  route  or  a  rein. 
Room!  room  to  be  free  where  the  white  bordered  sea, 
Blows  a  kiss  to  a  brother  as  boundless  as  he; 
Where  the  buffalo  come  like  a  cloud  on  the  plain, 
Pouring  on  like  the  tide  of  a  storm  driven  main, 
And  the  lodge  of  the  hunter  to  friend  or  to  foe 
Offers  rest;  and  unquestioned  you  come  or  you  go. 
My  plains  of  America!    Seas  of  wild  lands! 
From  a  land  in  the  seas  in  a  raiment  of  foam, 
That  has  reached  to  a  stranger  the  welcome  of  home, 
I  turn  to  you,  lean  to  you,  lift  you  my  hands. 
London,  1871. 


Kun?  Kun?  See  this  flank,  sir,  and  I  do 

love  him  so! 
But  he's  blind  as  a  badger.     Whoa,  Pache, 

boy,  whoa. 
No,  you  wouldn't  believe  it  to  look  at  his 

eyes, 
But  he's  blind,  badger  blind,  and  it  hap- 

pen'd  this  wise: 


"We  lay  in  the  grass  and  the  sunburnt 

clover 
That  spread  on  the  ground  like  a  great 

brown  cover 
Northward  and  southward,  and  west  and 

away 

To  the  Brazos,  where  our  lodges  lay, 
One  broad  and  unbroken  level  of  brown. 
We  were  waiting  the  curtains  of  night  to 

come  down 

To  cover  us  trio  and  conceal  our  flight 
With  my  brown  bride,  won  from  an  Indian 

town 
That  lay  in  the  rear  the  full  ride    of    a 

night. 


"We  lounged   in   the  grass — her  eyes 

were  in  mine, 
And  her  hands  on  my  knee,  and  her  hair 

was  as  wine 
In  its  wealth  and  its  flood,  pouring  on  and 

all  over 
Her  bosom  wine  red,  and  press'd  never  by 

one. 
Her  touch  was  as  warm  as  the  tinge  of  the 

clover 
Burnt   brown  as  it  reach'd  to  the  kiss  of 

the  sun. 

Her  words   they  were  low  as   the  lute- 
throated  dove, 
And  as  laden  with  love  as  the  heart   when 

it  beats 

In  its  hot,  eager  answer  to  earliest  love, 
Or  the  bee  hurried  home  by  its  burthen  of 

sweets. 


We  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad 

plain  levels, 

Old  Kevels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown 
bride; 


KIT    CARSON  S    RIDE. 


"  Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride! 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Comanches  are  hot  on  the  track 
When  once  they  strike  it.    Let  the  sun 

go  down 
Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered   bearded  old 

Revels 
As  he  peer'd  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his 

back, 
Holding  fast  to  his  lasso.     Then  he  jerk'd 

at  his  steed 
And  he   sprang  to  his  feet,  and   glanced 

swiftly  around, 
And  then  dropp'd,  as  if  shot,  with  an  ear 

to  the  ground; 
Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my 

bride, 
While  his  eyes  were  like  flame,  his  face 

like  a  shroud, 
His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a 

cloud, 
And   his  voice  loud  and   shrill,    as  both 

trumpet  and  reed, — 
"  Pull,  pull  in  your  lassoes,  and  bridle  to 

steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would 


Aye,  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you 

must  ride! 
For  the  plain  is  aflame,   the  prairie  on 

fire, 
And  the  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying 

before 
I  hear  like  a   sea  breaking  high  on  the 

shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the 

sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us 

three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in 

his  ire." 

"We  drew  in  the  lassoes,  seized  saddle 

and  rein, 

Threw  them  on,  cinched  them  on,  cinched 
them  over  again, 


And  again  drew  the  girth;  and  spring  we 

to  horse, 
With  head  to  the  Brazos,  with  a  sound  in 

the  air 
Like  the  surge  of  a  sea,   with  a  flash  in 

the  eye, 
From  that  red  wall  of  flame  reaching  up 

to  the  sky; 
A  red  wall  of  flame  and  a  black  rolling 

sea 

Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweep 
ing  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blown  hollow  and 

hoarse. 

"  Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was 

let  fall, 
We  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not 

a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be  done,  there  was 

death  in  the  air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand 

for  all. 

Twenty  miles! thirty  miles! a  dim 

distant  speck. . . . 
Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos 

in  sight! 
And  I  rose   in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of 

delight. 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  look'd  to  my 

right- 
But  Revels  was  gone;  I   glanced  by  my 

shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger;  I  saw  his  head 

drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked 

breast  stooping 
Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and 

bolder 

Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
He  rode  neck  to  neck  with  a  buffalo  bull, 
That  made  the  earth  shake  where  he  came 

in  his  course, 
The  monarch  of  millions,   with   shaggy 

mane  full 


KIT  CARSON'S  RIDE. 


59 


Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with 

desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings 

hoarse. 
His   keen,    crooked    horns,    through  the 

storm  of  his  mane, 
Like     black     lances     lifted     and     lifted 

again; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire 

licked  through, 
And  Eevels  was  gone,  as  we  rode  two  and 

two. 


"  I  look'd  to  my  left  then — and  nose,  neck, 

and  shoulder 
Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my 

thighs, 


And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of 

her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvelous 

eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love  yet  a  look  of 

despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke 

fold  her, 
And  flames  leaping  far  for  her   glorious 

hair. 
Her  sinking  horse  falter'd,  plunged,  fell 

and  was  gone 
As  I  reach'd  through  the  flame  and  I  bore 

her  still  on. 
On!    into    the    Brazos,    she,    Pache   and 

I— 
Poor,  burnt,  blinded  Pache.     I  love  him  . . 

That's  why. 


With  better  fortunes  when  my  first  London  book  was  out,  I  had  taken  rooms  at  Museum  street,  a  few  doors 
from  the  greatest  storehouse  of  art  and  history  on  the  globe,  and  I  literally  lived  in  the  British  Museum  every 
day.  But  I  had  already  overtaxed  my  strength,  and  my  eyes  were  paining  terribly.  Never  robust,  I  had  always 
abhorred  meat;  and  milk,  from  a  child,  had  been  my  strongest  drink.  In  the  chill  damp  of  London  you  must 
eat  and  drink.  I  was,  without  knowing  it,  starving  and  working  myself  to  death.  Always  and  wherever  you 
are,  when  a  hard  bit  of  work  is  done,  rest  and  refresh.  Go  to  the  fields,  woods,  to  God  and  get  strong.  This  is 
your  duty  as  well  as  your  right. 

Letters— sweet,  brave,  good  letters  from  the  learned  and  great— were  so  many  I  could  not  read  them  with 
my  poor  eyes  and  had  to  leave  them  to  friends.  They  found  two  from  the  Archbishop  of  Dublin.  I  was  to 
breakfast  with  him  to  meet  Browning,  Dean  Stanley,  Houghton,  and  so  on.  I  went  to  an  old  Jew  close  by  to 
hire  a  dress  suit,  as  Franklin  had  done  for  the  Court  of  St.  James.  While  fitting  on  the  clothes  I  told  him  I 
was  in  haste  to  go  to  a  great  breakfast.  He  stopped,  looked  at  me,  looked  me  all  over,  and  then  told  me  I 
must  not  wear  that,  but  he  would  hire  me  a  suit  of  velvet.  By  degrees,  as  he  fixed  me  up,  he  got  at,  or  guessed  at 
some  facts,  and  when  I  asked  to  pay  him  he  shook  his  head.  I  put  some  money  down  and  he  pushed  it  back. 
He  said  he  had  a  son,  his  only  family  now,  at  Oxford,  aud  he  kept  on  fixing  me  up;  cane,  great,  tall  silk  hat, 
gloves  and  all.  Who  would  have  guessed  the  heart  to  be  found  there? 

Browning  was  just  back  from  Italy,  sunburnt  and  ruddy.  "Robert,  you  are  brown  ing,  "smiled  Lady  Au 
gusta.  "And  you  are  August— a,"  bowed  the  great  poet  grandly;  and,  by  what  coincidence  —  he,  too,  was  ia 
brown  velvet,  and  so  like  my  own  that  I  was  a  bit  uneasy. 

Two  of  the  Archbishop's  beautiful  daughters  had  been  riding  in  the  park  with  the  Earl  of  Aberdeen.  "And 
did  you  gallop?"  asked  Browning  of  the  younger  beauty.  "I  galloped,  Joyce  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three." 
Then  we  all  laughed  at  the  happy  and  hearty  retort,  and  Browning,  beating  the  time  and  clang  of  galloping 
horses'  feet  on  the  table  with  his  fingers,  repeated  the  exact  measure  in  Latin  from  Virgil;  and  the  Archbishop 
laughingly  took  it  up,  in  Latin,  where  he  left  off.  I  then  told  Browning  I  had  an  order— it  was  my  first— for 
a  poem  from  the  Oa/ord  Magazine,  and  would  like  to  borrow  the  measure  and  spirit  of  his  "Good  News"  for 
a  prairie  fire  on  the  plains,  driving  buffalo  and  all  other  life  before  it  into  a  river.  "Why  not  borrow  from  Virgil, 
as  I  did?  He  is  as  rich  as  one  of  your  gold  mines,  while  I  am  but  a  poor  scribe."  And  this  was  my  first  of 
inner  London. 

Fast  on  top  of  this  came  breakfasts  with  Lord  Houghton,  lunch  with  Browning,  a  dinner  with  Rossetti  to 
meet  the  great  painters;  the  good  old  Jew  garmenting  me  always,  and  always  pushing  back  the  pay.  But  still  I 
could  not  or  would  not  eat  or  drink.  All  the  time,  too,  a  dreadful  sense  of  terror  hung  over  me;  for  brother,  at 
Easton,  Pa. ,  had  written  that  our  sister  in  Oregon  was  ill,  and  he  far  from  well. 

One  evening  Rossetti  brought  me  Walt  Whitman,  new  to  me,  and  that  night  I  lay  in  bed  and  read  it  through— 
the  last  book  I  ever  read.  I  could  not  bear  any  light  next  morning,  nor  very  much  light  ever  since,  nor  have 
ever  since  looked  upon  any  page  long  without  intense  pain  Hence  the  "eccentricity"  of  never  having  books  or 
papers  about  me,  of  writing  as  few  letters  as  possible,  and  these  on  colored  or  unruled  paper.  White  paper  hurts 


6o 

me  so  that  I  must  look  aside,  and  what  with  a  crippled  arm,  too.  I  write  a  and  hand.  Pardon  all  this  detail, 
but  the  facts  may  save  pain  to  gome  young  writers  whom  I  surely  would  answer  if  I  could. 

Let  me  here  note  some  things  my  new  poets  that  you  should  not  do  ;  then  some  that  you  must.  The  random 
notes  of  this  book  will  serve  you  better  than  all  the  letters  I  could  ever  write  you.  Spend  no  time  or  strength 
finding  fault  with  a  fellow  scribe.  I  know  but  little  of  prize  fighters  or  pirates  of  the  high  seas,  but  from  what  I 
am  told  they  are  far  more  courteous  to  one  another  than  are  American  authors,  except  in  sets  and  little  circles. 

If  you  feel  a  bitterness  my  young  poet  toward  some  one  more  favored  at  this  time  than  yourself,  pray  God 
to  send  some  good  angel  to  lay  you  on  your  back  and  take  the  black  drop  from  your  heart,  for  it  will  make  you 
not  only  weak  and  worthless  if  it  remain,  but  it  will  make  you  certainly  miserable.  If  you  cannot  learn  to  see 
beauty  and  love  beauty  in  the  life  and  work  of  Nature,  then,  believe  me,  you  were  not  born  to  the  sweetness  of 
song.  If  you  must  find  faults  find  them  in  your  own  work.  I  have  done  this,  and  it  has  kept  me  busy.  Nor 
shall  you  to  the  extent  of  its  newness,  scorn  a  new  character,  mistake  character  for  eccentricity.  Our  work, 
the  calling  of  the  poet  is  the  highest  under  the  stars,  so  are  hia  triumphs  the  rarest;  and  he  who  would  despoil 
him  would  despoil  the  dead. 

Nor  shall  you  bewail  the  afflictions  of  your  flesh.  That  is  old,  old;  and  has  been  done  perfectly.  The  man 
who  intrudes  the  weakness  of  his  body  is  a  bore.  Let  him,  if  he  must,  sing  the  weakness  of  his  mind.  But  when 
"he  putteth  off  his  armor,"  then,  and  not  till  then,  may  he  tell  the  pain  and  peril  of  his  fight. 

And  now  fell  the  pending  sword,  just  as  my  London  life  began.  Sister  was  dead  and  my  soldier  brother 
dying-bleeding  at  the  lungs.  I  took  the  first  steamer,  at  Southampton  for  his  bedside,  so  blinded  that  I  had 
to  be  led  to  my  berth. 

This  poem  was  not  in  any  of  my  four  first  books,  and  so  has  not  been  rightly  revised  till  now.  It  was  too  long 
for  the  tumultuous  and  swift  action;  and  then  the  end  was  coarse  and  unworthy  the  brave  spirit  of  Kit  Carson.  I 
have  here  cut  and  changed  it  much;  as  I  cut  and  changed  all  the  matter  of  my  three  preceding  books  in  London 
when  I  cut  and  compressed  all  I  had  done  worth  preserving  into  the  Songs  of  the  Sierras. 


WHEN    LITTLE    SISTER    CAME, 


6l 


WHEN   LITTLE  SISTER  CAME. 


We  dwelt  in    the  woods  of    the  Tippe- 

canoe, 

In  a  lone  lost  cabin,  with  never  a  view 
Of   the  full  day's  sun  for  a  whole  year 

through. 

With  strange  half  hints  through  the  rus 
set  corn 
We  children  were  hurried  one  night.   Next 

morn 
There  was  frost  on  the  trees,  and  a  sprinkle 

of  snow, 
And  tracks  on  the  ground.     Three  boys 

below 
The  low  eave  listened.     We  burst  through 

the  door, 
And  a  girl  baby  cried, — and  then  we  were 

four. 


We  were  not  sturdy,  and  we  were  not 
wise 

In  the  things  of  the  world,  and  the  ways 
men  dare. 

A  pale  browed  mother  with  a  prophet's 
eyes, 

A  father  that  dreamed  and  looked  any 
where. 

Three  brothers— wild  blossoms,  tall- 
fashioned  as  men 

And  we  mingled  with  none,  but  we  lived 
as  when 

The  pair  first  lived  ere  they  knew  the 
fall; 

And,  loving  all  things,  we  believed  in 
all. 

Ah!  girding  yourself  and  throwing  your 
strength 


On  the  front  of  the  forest  that  stands  in 

mail, 
Sounds   gallant,    indeed,    in   a   pioneer's 

tale, 

But,  God  in  heaven!  the  weariness 
Of  a  sweet   soul   banished  to  a   life  like 

this! 

This   reaching  of   weary-worn  arms   full 

length; 
This  stooping  all  day  to  the  cold  stubborn 

soil— 
This  holding  the  heart!  it  is  more  than 

toil! 
What  loneless  of  heart !  what  wishings  to 

die 
In  that  soul  in  the  earth,  that  was  born 

for  the  sky! 

We  parted   wood-curtains,  pushed  west 
ward  and  we, 

Why,  we  wandered  and  wandered  a  half 
year  through, 

We  tented  with  herds  as  the  Arabs  do, 

And  at   last  sat   down   by  the  sundown 
sea. 

Then  there  in  that  sun  did  my  soul  take 
fire! 

It  burned  in  its  fervor,  thou  Venice,  for 
thee! 

My  glad  heart  glowed  with  the  one  de 
sire 

To  stride  to  the  front,  to  live,  to  be! 

To   strow   great    thoughts    through    the 
world  as  I  went, 

As   God   sows  stars  through  the    firma 
ment. 
VENICE,  1874. 


62  WHEN   LITTLE    SISTER    CAME. 

We  had  been  moving  West  and  West  from  my  birth,  at  Liberty,  Union  county,  Ind.,  November  10,  1841  or 
1842  (the  Bible  was  burned  and  we  don't  know  which  year),  and  now  were  in  the  woods  of  the  Miami  Indian 
Reserve.  My  first  recollection  is  of  starting  up  from  the  trundle  bed  with  my  two  little  brothers  and  looking 
out  one  night  at  father  and  mother  at  work  burning  brush -heaps,  which  threw  a  lurid  flare  against  the 
greased  paper  window.  Late  that  autumn  I  was  measured  for  my  first  shoes,  and  Papa  led  me  to  his  school. 
Then  a  strange  old  woman  came,  and  there  was  mystery  and  a  smell  of  mint,  and  one  night,  as  we  three  little 
ones  were  hurried  away  through  the  woods  to  a  neighbor's,  she  was  very  cross.  We  three  came  back  alone  in  the 
cold,  early  morning.  There  was  a  little  snow,  rabbit  tracks  in  the  trail,  and  some  quail  ran  hastily  from  cover 
to  cover.  We  three  little  ones  were  all  alone  and  silent,  so  silent.  We  knew  nothing,  nothing  at  all,  and  yet  we 
knew,  intuitively,  all;  bat  truly  the  divine  mystery  of  mother  nature,  God's  relegation  of  His  last  great  work  to 
woman,  her  partnership  with  Him  in  creation— not  one  of  us  had  ever  dreamed  of.  Yet  we  three  little  lada  hud 
died  up  in  a  knot  near  the  ice-hung  eaves  of  the  log  cabin  outside  the  corner  where  mother's  bed  stood  and  —did 
the  new  baby  hear  her  silent  and  awed  little  brothers?  Did  she  feel  them,  outside  there,  huddled  close  together 
in  the  cold  and  snow,  listening,  listening?  For  lo !  a  little  baby  cry  came  through  the  cabin  wall;  and  then  we 
all  rushed  around  the  corner  of  the  cabin,  jerked  the  latch  and  all  three  in  a  heap  tumbled  up  into  the  bed  and 
peered  down  into  the  little  pink  face  against  mother's  breast.  Gentle,  gentle,  how  more  than  ever  gentle  were  we 
all  six  now  in  that  little  log  cabin.  Papa  doing  everything  BO  gently,  saying  nothing,  only  doing,  doing.  And  ever 
so  and  always  toward  the  West,  till  1852,  when  ho  had  touched  the  sea  of  seas,  and  could  go  no  farther.  And  » 
gentle  always!  Can  you  conceive  how  gentle?  Seventy-two  years  he  led  and  lived  in  the  wilderness  and  yet 
never  fired  or  even  laid  hand  to  a  gun. 


OLIVE    LEAVES. 


OLIVE   LEAVES. 

"In  the  desert  a  fountain  is  springing, 
In  the  wild  waste  there  still  is  a  tree." 

"  Though  the  many  lights  dwindle  to  one  light, 
There  is  help  if  the  heavens  have  one." 

"  Change  lays  not  her  hand  upon  truth." 


AT  BETHLEHEM. 

With  incense  and  myrrh  and  sweet  spices, 

Frankincense  and  sacredest  oil 
In  ivory,  chased  with  devices 

Cut  quaint  and  in  serpentine  coil; 
Heads  bared,  and  held  down  to  the  bosom; 

Brows    massive    with    wisdom    and 

bronzed; 

Beards  white  as  the  white  May  in  blos 
som; 

And  borne  to  the  breast  and  beyond, — 
Came  the  Wise  of  the  East,  bending  lowly 

On  staffs,  with  their  garments  girt  round 
With  girdles  of  hair,  to  the  Holy 

Child   Christ,    in    their    sandals.     The 

sound 
3f  song  and  thanksgiving  ascended — 

Deep  night!     Yet  some  shepherds  afar 
Heard  a  wail  with  the  worshipping  blended 

And  they  then  knew  the  sign  of  the  star. 

"LA  NOTTE." 

Is  it  night?    And  sits  night  at  your  pil 
low? 

Sits  darkness  about  you  like  death  ? 
Rolls  darkness  above  like  a  billow, 

As  drowning  men  catch  in  their  breath  ? 

Is  it  night,  and  deep  night  of  dark  errors, 
Of  crosses,  of  pitfalls  and  bars? 

Then  lift  up  your  face  from  your  terrors, 
For  heaven  alone  holds  the  stars! 


Lo!    shaggy   beard    shepherds,    the    fast 
ness- 
Lorn,  desolate  Syrian  sod; 

The  darkness,  the  midnight,  the  vastness — 
That  vast,  solemn  night  bore  a  God! 

The  night  brought  us  God;  and  the  Savior 

Lay  down  in  a  cradle  to  rest; 
A  sweet  cherub  Babe  in  behavior, 

So  that  all  baby-world  might  be  blest. 

IN   PALESTINE. 

O  Jebus!  thou  mother  of  prophets, 
Of  soldiers  and  heroes  of  song; 

Let  the  crescent  oppress  thee  and  scoff  its 
Blind  will,  let  the  days  do  thee  wrong; 

But  to  me  thou  art  sacred  and  splendid, 
And  to  me  thou  art  matchless  and  fair, 

As  the  tawny  sweet  twilight,  with  blended 
Sunlight  and  red  stars  in  her  hair. 

Thy  fair  ships  once  came  from  sweet  Cy 
prus, 

And  fair  ships  drew  in  from  Gyrene, 
With  fruits  and  rich  robes  and  sweet  spices 

For  thee  and  thine,  eminent  queen; 

And  camels  came  in  with  the  traces 
Of  white  desert  dust  in  their  hair 

As  they  kneel'd  in  the  loud  market  places, 
And  Arabs  with  lances  were  there. 


64 


OLIVE    LEAVES. 


'Tis  past,  and  the  Bedouin  pillows 
His  head  where  thy  battlements  fall, 

And  thy  temples   flash  gold   to   the  bil 
lows, 
Never  more  over  turreted  wall. 

'Tis  past,  and  the  green  velvet  mosses 
Have  grown  by  the  sea,  and  now  sore 

Does  the  far  billow  mourn  for  his  losses 
Of  lifted  white  ships  to  the  shore. 

Let  the  crescent  uprise,  let  it  flash  on 
Thy  dust  in  the  garden  of  death, 

Thy  chastened  and  passionless  passion 
Sunk  down  to  the  sound  of  a  breath; 

Yet  you   lived  like   a  king  on   a   throne 

and 

You  died  like  a  queen  of  the  south; 
For  you  lifted   the   cup  with  your  own 

hand 

To    your   proud    and  your    passionate 
mouth; 

Like  a  splendid  swift  serpent  surrounded 
With  fire  and  sword,  in  your  side 

You  struck  your  hot  fangs  and  confounded 
Your  foes;  you  struck  deep,  and  so— 
died. 

BEYOND    JOKDAN. 

And  they  came  to  him,  mothers  of  Judah, 
Dark  eyed  and  in  splendor  of  hair, 

Bearing  down  over  shoulders  of  beauty, 
And  bosoms  half  hidden,  half  bare; 

And  they  brought  him  their  babes  and  be 
sought  him 

Half  kneeling,  with  suppliant  air, 
To  bless  the  brown  cherubs  they  brought 

him, 
With  holy  hands  laid  in  their  hair. 

Then  reaching  his  hands  he  said,  lowly, 
"Of  such  is  My  Kingdom;  "  and  then 


Took  the  brown  little  babes  in  the  holy 
White  hands  of  the  Savior  of  men; 

Held  them  close  to  his  heart  and  caress'd 

them, 

Put  his  face  down  to  theirs  as  in  prayer, 
Put  their  hands  to  his  neck,  and  sobless'd 

them 
With  baby  hands  hid  in  his  hair. 

FAITH. 

There  were  whimsical  turns  of  the  waters, 
There  were  rhythmical  talks  of  the  sea,  — 

There    were    gather'd    the    darkest   eyed 

daughters 
Of  men,  by  the  deep  Galilee. 

A  blowing  full  sail,  and  a  parting 
From  multitudes,  living  in  Him, 

A  trembling  of  lips,  and  tears  starting 
From  eyes  that  look'd  downward  and 
dim. 

A  mantle  of  night  and  a  marching 
Of  storms,  and  a  sounding  of  seas, 

Of  furrows  of  foam  and  of  arching 
Black  billows;  a  bending  of  knees; 

The  rising  of  Christ — an  entreating— 

Hands  reach'd  to  the  seas  as  he  saith, 
"Have  Faith!"     And  all  seas  are  repeat 
ing, 

"Have    Faith!      Have    Faith!      Have 
Faith!  " 

HOPE. 

What  song  is  well  sung  not  of  sorrow  ? 

What  triumph  well  won  without  pain? 
What  virtue  shall  be,  and  not  borrow 

Bfright  luster  from  many  a  stain? 

What  birth  has   there  been  without  tra 
vail? 
What  battle  well  won  without  blood? 


OLIVE    LEAVES. 


What  good  shall  earth  see  without  evil 
Ingarner'd  as  chaff  with  the  good  ? 

Lo!  the  Cross  set  in  rocks  by  the  Roman, 
And  nourish'd  by  blood  of  the  Lamb, 

And  water'd  by  tears  of  the  woman, 

Has  nourish'd,  has  spread  like  a  palm; 


spread  in  the  frosts,  and  far  regions 
Of  snows  in  the  North,  and  South  sands, 
Where  never  the  tramp  of  his  legions 
Was   heard,    or    reach'd  forth   his    red 
hands. 

Be  thankful;  the  price  and  the  payment, 
The  birth,  the  privations  and  scorn, 

The  cross,  and  the  parting  of  raiment, 
Are  finish'd.    The  star  brought  us  morn. 

Look  starward;  stand  far  and  unearthy, 
Free  soul'd  as  a  banner  unfurl'd. 

Be  worthy,  O  brother,  be  worthy! 
For  a  God  was  the  price  of  the  world. 

CHAEITY. 

Her  hands  were  clasped  downward  and 
doubled, 

Her  head  was  held  down  and  depress 'd, 
Her  bosom,  like  white  billows  troubled, 

Fell  fitful  and  rose  in  unrest; 

Her  robes  were  all  dust,  and  disorder 'd 
Her  glory  of  hair,  and  her  brow, 

Her  face,  that  had  lifted  and  lorded, 
Fell  pallid  and  passionless  now. 

She  heard  not  accusers  that  brought  her 

In  mockery  hurried  to  Him, 
Nor  heeded,  nor  said,  nor  besought  her 

With  eyes  lifted  doubtful  and  dim. 

All  crush'd  and  stone-cast  in  behavior, 
She  stood  as  a  marble  would  stand, 

Then    the  Savior   bent    down,   and    the 

Savior 
In  silence  wrote  on  in  the  sand. 


What  wrote  He?    How  fondly   one  lin 
gers 

And  questions,  what  holy  command 
Fell  down  from  the  beautiful  fingers 

Of  Jesus,  like  gems  in  the  sand. 

O  better  the  Scian  uncherish'd 
Had  died  ere  a  note  or  device 

Of  battle  was  fashion'd,  than  perish'd 
This  only  line  written  by  Christ. 

He  arose  and  look'd  on  the  daughter 
Of  Eve,  like  a  delicate  flower, 

And  he  heard   the  revilers  that  brought 

her; 
Men  stormy,  and  strong  as  a  tower; 

And  He  said,   "  She   has  sinn'd  ;  let  the 

blameless 

Come  forward  and  cast  the  first  stone!  " 
But  they,  they  fled  shamed  and  yet  shame 
less; 
And  she,  she  stood  white  and  alone. 

Who  now  shall  accuse  and  arraign  us? 

What    man    shall    condemn    and    dis 
own? 
Since  Christ  has  said  only  the  stainless 

Shall  cast  at  his  fellows  a  stone. 

For  what  man  can  bare  us  his  bosom, 
And  touch  with  his  forefinger  there, 

And  say,  'Tis  as  snow,  as  a  blossom  ? 
Beware  of  the  stainless,  beware! 

O  woman,  born  first  to  believe  us; 

Yea,  also  born  first  to  forget; 
Born  first  to  betray  and  deceive  us; 

Yet  first  to  repent  and  regret! 

O  first  then  in  all  that  is  human, 
Yea!  first  where  the  Nazarene  trod, 

O  woman!  O  beautiful  woman! 

Be  then  first  in  the  kingdom  of  God! 


66 


OLIVE    LEAVES. 


THE  LAST  SUPPEK. 

"  And  when  they  had  sung  an  hymn  they 
went  out  into  the  Mount  of  Olives." 

What  song  sang  the  twelve  with  the  Savior 
When  finish'd  the  sacrament  wine  ? 

Were  they  bow'd  and  subdued  in  behav 
ior, 
Or  bold  as  made  bold  with  a  sign  ? 

Were  the  hairy  breasts  strong  and  de 
fiant? 

Were  the  naked  arms  brawny  and  strong  ? 
Were  the  bearded  lips  lifted  reliant, 

Thrust  forth  and  full  sturdy  with  song! 

What  sang  they?  What  sweet  song  of 
Zion 

With  Christ  in  their  midst  like  a  crown  ? 
While  here  sat  Saint  Peter,  the  lion; 

And  there  like  a  lamb,  with  head  down, 

Sat  Saint  John,  with  his  silken  and 
raven 

Kich  hair  on  his  shoulders,  and  eyes 
Lifting  up  to  the  faces  unshaven 

Like  a  sensitive  child's  in  surprise. 

Was  the  song  as  strong  fishermen  swing 
ing 

Their  nets  full  of  hope  to  the  sea? 
Or  low,  like  the  ripple  wave,  singing 

Sea  songs  on  their  loved  Galilee  ? 

Were  they  sad  with  foreshadow  of  sor 
rows, 
Like  the  birds  that  sing  low  when  the 

breeze 

Is  tiptoe  with  a  tale  of  to-morrows, — 
Of  earthquakes  and  sinking  of  seas? 

Ah!  soft  was  their  song  as  the  waves  are 
That  fall  in  low  musical  moans; 

And  sad  I  should  say  as  the  winds  are 
That  blow  by  the  white  gravestones. 


A  SONG  FOR  PEACE, 
i. 

As  a  tale  that  is  told,  as  a  vision, 

Forgive  and  forget;  for  I  say 
That    the    true  shall  endure  the   deris 
ion 

Of  the  false  till  the  full  of  the  day; 

II. 

Ay,  forgive  as  you  would  be  forgiven; 

Ay,  forget,  lest  the  ill  you  have  done 
Be  remember'd  against  you  in  heaven 

And  all  the  days  under  the  sun. 

ill. 

For  who  shall  have  bread  without  labor  ? 
And     who     shall    have    rest    without 

price? 

And  who  shall  hold  war  with  his  neigh 
bor 
With  promise  of  peace  with  the  Christ? 

IV. 

The  years  may  lay  hand  on  fair  heaven; 

May  place  and  displace  the  red  stars; 
May   stain    them,    as    blood    stains    are 
driven 

At  sunset  in  beautiful  bars; 

v. 

May  shroud  them  in  black  till  they  fret 
us 

As  clouds  with  their  showers  of  tears; 
May  grind  us  to  dust  and  forget  us, 

May  the  years,  O,  the  pitiless  years! 

VI. 

But  the  precepts  of  Christ  are  beyond 
them  ; 

The  truths  by  the  Nazarene  taught, 
With  the  tramp  of  the  ages  upon  them, 

They  endure  as  though  ages  were  naught; 


OLIVE    LEAVES. 


67 


VII. 

The    deserts    may    drink    up    the   foun 
tains, 

The  forests  give  place  to  the  plain, 
The  main  may  give  place  to  the  moun 
tains, 
The  mountains  return  to  the  main; 


VIII. 

Mutations  of  worlds  and  mutations 
Of    suns     may     take    place,    but 
reign 

Of  Time,  and  the  toils  and  vexations 
Bequeath  them,  no,  never  a  stain. 


the 


IX. 

Go  forth  to  the  fields  as  one  sowing, 
Sing  songs  and  be  glad  as  you  go, 

There   are  seeds  that  take  root   without 

showing, 
And  bear  some  fruit  whether  or  no. 

x. 

And  the  sun  shall  shine  sooner  or  later, 
Though  the  midnight  breaks  ground  on 

the  morn, 

Then  appeal  you  to  Christ,  the  Creator, 
And  to  gray  bearded   Time,    His   first 
born. 


Jean  Ingelow,  London,  had  given  a  letter  to  a  Boston  publisher,  who  came  to  me  there  for  my  book  in  America, 
as  I  was  more  entirely  a  stranger  in  the  Atlantic  States  than  in  Europe;  and  now  returned  I  sat  all  summer 
at  a  bedside,  editing  the  book  and  also  trying  to  write  the  Life  of  Christ  in  verse  for  Brother.  At  last  the  revised 
edition  for  America  was  done.  It  came  just  in  time.  He  took  the  book,  still  damp  from  the  binders,  said  "It  is 
a  pretty  book,"  and  laid  it  down.  He  said  some  other  things,  sacred  to  us,  and  passed.  Had  he  lived,  with  his 
better  sense  about  all  things,  I  surely  should  have  done  better,  better  in  all  ways.  Death  had  broken  in  upon  us 
cruelly,  and  I  must  go  back  to  Oregon  now.  There  was  not  time  nor  heart  nor  health  to  finish  the  Life  of 
Christ;  besides  I  had  begun  to  see  that  the  measure  was  monotonous.  The  greatest  poem  on  earth  probably  is  the 
Sermon  on  the  Mount.  I  laid  the  few  completed  pages  on  my  Brother's  grave,  and  once  more  I  was  in  Oregon. 
Care  and  toil  had  again  brought  on  the  painful  snow  blindness,  and  yet  how  fortunate  this  cruel  misfortune  now. 
For  I  could  not  see  to  read  the  fearfully  coarse  insults  and  falsehoods  that  now  pursued  me,  simply  because  I  had, 
at  such  cost,  garmented  my  mountains  with  a  new  glory. 

O  boy  at  peace  upon  the  Delaware ! 

0  brother  mine,  that  fell  in  battle  front 
Of  life,  so  braver,  nobler  far  than  I, 
The  wanderer  who  vexed  all  gentleness. 
Receive  this  song ;  I  have  but  this  to  give. 

1  may  not  rear  the  rich  man's  ghostly  stone ; 
But  you,  through  all  my  follies  loving  still 
And  trusting  me nay,  I  shall  not  forget. 


A  failing  hand  1n  mine,  and  fading  eyes 

That  look'd  in  mine  as  from  another  land, 

You  said :  "  Some  gentler  things  ;  a  song  for  Peace. 

'Mid  all  your  songs  for  men  one  song  for  God. " 

And  then  the  dark-brow'd  mother,  Death,  bent  down 

Her  face  to  yours,  and  you  were  born  to  Him. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE.  69 


SONGS    OF    THE    SUNLANDS. 


THE  SEA  OF  FIRE. 

In  a  land  so  far  that  you  wonder  whether 

If  God  would  know  it  should  you  fall  down  dead; 

In  a  land  so  far  through  the  soft,  warm  weather 
That  the  sun  sinks  red  as  a  warrior  sped, — 

Where  the  sea  and  the  sky  seem  closing  together, 
Seem   closing  together  as  a  book  that  is  read: 

'Tis  the  half-finished  world!     Yon  footfall  retreating,— 

It  might  be  the  Maker  disturbed  at  his  task. 
But  the  footfall  of  God,  or  the  far  pheasant  beating, 

It  is  one  and  the  same,  whatever  the  mask 
It  may  wear  unto  man.     The  woods  keep  repeating 

The  old  sacred  sermons,  whatever  you  ask. 

It  is  man  in  his  garden,  scarce  wakened  as  yet 

From  the  sleep  that  fell  on  him  when  woman  was  made. 

The  new-finished  garden  is  plastic  and  wet 
From  the  hand  that  has  fashioned  its  unpeopled  shade  ; 

And  the  wonder  still  looks  from  the  fair  tvomaji's  eyes 

As  she  shines  through   the  wood  like  the  light  from  the  skies. 

And  a  ship  now  and  then  for  this  far  Ophir  shore 
Draws  in  from  the  sea.     It  lies  close  io  the  bank ; 
Then  a  dull,  muffled  sound  on  the  slow  shuffled  plank 

As  they  load  the  black  ship  ;  but  you  hear  nothing  more. 
And  the  dark,  dewy  vines,  and  the  tall,  somber  wood 
Like  twilight  droop  over  the  deep,  sweeping  flood. 

The  black  masts  are  tangled  with  branches  that  cross, 
The  rich  fragrant  gums  fall  from  branches  to  deck, 

The  thin  ropes  are  swinging  with  streamers  of  moss 
That  mantle  all  things  like  the  shreds  of  a  wreck  ; 

The  long  mosses  swing,  there  is  never  a  breath: 

The  river  rolls  still  as  the  river  of  death. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


In  the  beginning,— ay,  before 
The  six-days'  labors  were  well  o'er; 
Yea,  while  the  world  lay  incomplete, 
Ere  God  had  opened  quite  the  door 
Of    this   strange  land  for    strong   men's 

feet,— 

There  lay  against  that  westmost  sea, 
A  weird,  wild  land  of  mystery. 

A  far  white  wall,  like  fallen  moon, 
Girt  out  the  world.     The  forest  lay 
So  deep  you  scarcely  saw  the  day, 
Save  in  the  high-held  middle  noon: 
It  lay  a  land  of  sleep  and  dreams, 
And  clouds  drew  through  like  shoreless 

streams 
That  stretch  to  where  no  man  may  say. 

Men  reached  it  only  from  the  sea, 
By  black-built  ships,  that  seemed  to  creep 
Along  the  shore  suspiciously, 
Like  unnamed  monsters  of  the  deep. 
It  was  the  weirdest  land,  I  ween, 
That  mortal  eye  has  ever  seen. 

A  dim,  dark  land  of  bird  and  beast, 
Black  shaggy  beasts  with  cloven  claw, — 
A  land  that  scarce  knew  prayer  or  priest, 
Or  law  of  man,  or  Nature's  law; 
Where  no  fixed  line  drew  sharp  dispute 
'Twixt  savage  man  and  sullen  brute. 

II. 

It  hath  a  history  most  fit 
For  cunning  hand  to  fashion  on; 
No  chronicler  hath  mentioned  it; 
No  buccaneer  set  foot  upon. 
'Tis  of  an  outlawed  Spanish  Don, — 
A  cruel  man,  with  pirate's  gold 
That  loaded  down  his  deep  ship's  hold. 

A  deep  ship's  hold  of  plundered  gold! 
The  golden  cruse,  the  golden  cross, 
From  many  a  church  of  Mexico, 


From  Panama's  mad  overthrow, 
From  many  a  ransomed  city's  loss, 
From  many  a  follower  fierce  and  bold, 
And  many  a  foeman  stark  and  cold. 

He  found  this  wild,  lost  land.     He  drew 
His  ship  to  shore.     His  ruthless  crew, 
Like  Konmlus,  laid  lawless  hand 
On  meek  brown  maidens  of  the  land, 
And  in  their  bloody  forays  bore 
Red  firebrands  along  the  shore. 

in. 

The  red  men  rose  at  night.     They  came, 
A  firm,  unflinching  wall  of  flame; 
They  swept,  as  sweeps  some  fateful  sea 
O'er  land  of  sand  and  level  shore 
That  howls  in  far,  fierce  agony. 
The  red  men  swept  that  deep,  dark  shore 
As  threshers  sweep  a  threshing  floor. 

And  yet  beside  the  slain  Don's  door 
They  left  his  daughter,  as  they  fled: 
They  spared  her  life  because  she  bore 
Their  Chieftain's  blood  and   name.    The 

red 

And  blood-stained  hidden  hoards  of  gold 
They  hollowed  from  the  stout  ship's  hold, 
And  bore  in  many  a  slim  canoe — 
To  where?  The  good  priest  only  knew. 

IV. 

The  course  of  life  is  like  the  sea; 
Men  come  and  go;  tides  rise  and  fall; 
And  that  is  all  of  history. 
The  tide  flows  in,  flows  out  to-day — 
And  that  is  all  that  man  may  say; 
Man  is,  man  was, — and  that  is  all. 

Revenge  at  last  came  like  a  tide,— 
'T  was  sweeping,  deep  and  terrible; 
The  Christian  found  the  land,  and  came 
To  take  possession  in  Christ's  name. 
For  every  white  man  that  had  died 
I  think  a  thousand  red  men  fell, — 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


A  Christian  custom;  and  the  land 
Lay  lifeless  as  some  burned-out  brand. 

v. 

Ere  while  the  slain  Don's  daughter  grew 
A  glorious  thing,  a  flower  of  spring, 
A  something  more  than  mortals  knew; 
A  mystery  of  grace  and  face, — 
A  silent  mystery  that  stood 
An  empress  in  that  sea-set  wood, 
Supreme,  imperial  in  her  place. 

It  might  have  been  men's  lust  for  gold, — 
For  all  men  knew  that  lawless  crew 
Left  hoards  of  gold  in  that  ship's  hold, 
That  drew  ships  hence,  and  silent  drew 
Strange  Jasons  there  to  love  or  dare; 
I  never  knew,  nor  need  I  care. 

I  say  it  might  have  been  this  gold 
That  ever  drew  and  strangely  drew 
Strong  men  of  land,  strange  men  of  sea 
To  seek  this  shore  of  mystery 
With  all  its  wondrous  tales  untold; 
The  gold  or  her,  which  of  the  two  ? 
It  matters  not  to  me,  or  you. 

But  this  I  know,  that  as  for  me, 
Between  that  face  and  the  hard  fate 
That  kept  me  ever  from  my  own, 
As    some    wronged    monarch    from    his 

throne, 

All  heaped-up  gold  of  land  or  sea 
Had  never  weighed  one  feather's  weight. 

Her  home  was  on  the  wooded  height, — 
A  woody  home,  a  priest  at  prayer, 
A  perfume  in  the  fervid  air, 
And  angels  watching  her  at  night. 
I  can  but  think  upon  the  skies 
That  bound  that  other  Paradise. 


Below  a  star-built  arch,  as  grand 
As  ever  bended  heaven  spanned, 
Tall  trees  like  mighty  columns  grew — 


They  loomed  as  if  to  pierce  the  blue, 
They  reached,  as  reaching  heaven  through. 

The  shadowed  stream  rolled  far  below, 
Where  men  moved  noiseless  to  and  fro 
As  in  some  vast  cathedral,  when 
The  calm  of  prayer  comes  to  men, 
And  benedictions  bless  them  so. 

What  wooded  sea-banks,  wild  and  steep! 
What  trackless  wood!  what  snowy  cone 
That  lifted  from  this  wood  alone! 
What  wild,  wide  river,  dark  and  deep'. 
What  ships  against  the  shore  asleep! 

VII. 

An  Indian  woman  cautious  crept 
About  the  land  the  while  it  slept, 
The  relic  of  her  perished  race. 
She  wore  rich,  rudely-fashioned  bands 
Of  gold  above  her  bony  hands; 
She  hissed  hot  curses  on  the  place! 

VIII. 

Go  seek  the  red  man's  last  retreat! 
What  lonesome  lands !  what  haunted  lands ! 
Ked  mouths  of  beasts,  red  men's  red  hands; 
Red  prophet-priests,  in  mute  defeat. 
From  Incan  temples  overthrown 
To  lorn  Alaska's  isles  of  bone 
The  red  man  lives  and  dies  alone. 

His  boundaries  in  blood  are  writ! 
His  land  is  ghostland!     That  is  his, 
Whatever  we  may  claim  of  this; 
Beware  how  you  shall  enter  it ! 
He  stands  God's  guardian  of  ghostlands; 
Yea,  this  same  wrapped  half -prophet  stands 
All  nude  and  voiceless,  nearer  to 
The  dread,  lone  God  than  I  or  you. 

IX. 

This  bronzed  child,  by  that  river's  brink, 
Stood  fair  to  see  as  you  can  think, 
As  tall  as  tall  reeds  at  her  feet, 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


As  fresh  as  flowers  in  her  hair; 
As  sweet  as  flowers  over-sweet, 
As  fair  as  vision  more  than  fair! 

How  beautiful  she  was!     How  wild! 
How  pure  as  water-plant,  this  child, — 
This  one  wild  child  of  Nature  here 
Grown  tall  in  shadows. 

And  how  near 

To  God,  where  no  man  stood  between 
Her  eyes  and  scenes  no  man  hath  seen, — 
This  maiden  that  so  mutely  stood, 
The  one  lone  woman  of  that  wood. 

Stop  still,  my  friend,  and  do  not  stir, 
Shut  close  your  page  and  think  of  her. 
The  birds  sang  sweeter  for  her  face; 
Her  lifted  eyes  were  like  a  grace 
To  seamen  of  that  solitude, 
However  rough,  however  rude. 

The  rippled  river  of  her  hair, 
Flowed  in  such  wondrous  waves,  somehow 
Flowed  down  divided  by  her  brow, — 
It  mantled  her  within  its  care, 
And  flooded  all  her  form  below, 
In  its  uncommon  fold  and  flow. 

A  perfume  and  an  incense  lay 
Before  her,  as  an  incense  sweet 
Before  blithe  mowers  of  sweet  May 
In  early  morn.     Her  certain  feet 
Embarked  on  no  uncertain  way. 

Come,  think  how  perfect  before  men, 
How  sweet  as  sweet  magnolia  bloom 
Embalmed  in  dews  of  morning,  when 
Rich  sunlight  leaps  from  midnight  gloom 
Resolved  to  kiss,  and  swift  to  kiss 
Ere  yet  morn  wakens  man  to  bliss. 

x. 

The  days  swept  on.  Her  perfect  year 
Was  with  her  now.  The  sweet  perfume 
Of  womanhood  in  holy  bloom, 


As  when  red  harvest  blooms  appear, 
Possessed  her  soul.    The  priest  did  pray 
That  saints  alone  should  pass  that  way. 

A  red  bird  built  beneath  her  roof, 
Brown  squirrels  crossed  her  cabin  sill, 
And  welcome  came  or  went  at  will. 
A  hermit  spider  wove  his  web 
Above  her  door  and  plied  his  trade, 
With  none  to  fright  or  make  afraid. 

The  silly  elk,  the  spotted  fawn, 
And  all  dumb  beasts  that  came  to  drink, 
That  stealthy  stole  upon  the  brink 
By  coming  night  or  going  dawn, 
On  seeing  her  familiar  face 
Would  fearless  stop  and  stand  in  place. 

She  was  so  kind,  the  beasts  of  night 
Gave  her  the  road  as  if  her  right; 
The  panther  crouching  overhead 
In  sheen  of  moss  would  hear  her  tread, 
And  bend  his  eyes,  but  never  stir 
Lest  he  by  chance  might  frighten  her. 

Yet  in  her  splendid  strength,  her  eyes, 
There  lay  the  lightning  of  the  skies; 
The  love-hate  of  the  lioness, 
To  kill  the  instant  or  caress: 
A  pent-up  soul  that  sometimes  grew 
Impatient;  why,  she  hardly  knew. 

At  last  she  sighed,  uprose,  and  threw 
Her  strong  arms  out  as  if  to  hand 
Her  love,  sun-born  and  all  complete 
At  birth,  to  some  brave  lover's  feet 
On  some  far,  fair,  and  unseen  land, 
As  knowing  not  quite  what  to  do! 

XI. 

How  beautiful  she  was!     Why,  she 
Was  inspiration!     She  was  born 
To  walk  God's  sunlit  hills  at  morn, 
Nor  waste  her  by  this  wood-dark  sea. 
What  wonder,  then,  her  soul's  white  winga 
Beat  at  its  bars,  like  living  things! 


THE    SEA    OF   FIRE. 


73 


Once  more  she  sighed!     She  wandered 

through 
The  sea-bound  wood,  then   stopped  and 

drew 

Her  hand  above  her  face,  and  swept 
The  lonesome  sea,  and  all  day  kept 
Her  face  to  sea,  as  if  she  knew 
Some  day,  some  near  or  distant  day, 
Her  destiny  should  come  that  way. 

XII. 

How  proud  she  was!     How  darkly  fair! 
How  full  of  faith,  of  love,  of  strength! 
Her  calm,  proud  eyes!     Her  great  hair's 

length, — 

Her  long,  strong,  tumbled,  careless  hair, 
Half  curled  and  knotted  anywhere, — 
By  brow  or  breast,  or  cheek  or  chin, 
For  love  to  trip  and  tangle  in! 

XIII. 

At  last  a  tall  strange  sail  was  seen: 
It  came  so  slow,  so  wearily, 
Came  creeping  cautious  up  the  sea, 
As  if  it  crept  from  out  between 
The  half-closed  sea  and  sky  that  lay 
Tight  wedged  together,  far  away. 

She  watched  it,  wooed  it.     She  did  pray 
It  might  not  pass  her  by  but  bring 
Some  love,  some  hate,  some  anything, 
To  break  the  awful  loneliness 
That  like  a  nightly  nightmare  lay 
Upon  her  proud  and  pent-up  soul 
Until  it  barely  brooked  control. 

XIV. 

The  ship  crept  silent  up  the  sea, 
And  came — 

You  cannot  understand 
How  fair  she  was,  how  sudden  she 
Had  sprung,  full  grown,  to  womanhood ; 
How  gracious,  yet  how  proud  and  grand; 
How  glorified,  yet  fresh  and  free, 
How  human,  yet  how  more  than  good. 


XV. 

The  ship  stole  slowly,  slowly  on; — 
Should  you  in  Californian  field 
In  ample  flower-time  behold 
The  soft  south  rose  lift  like  a  shield 
Against  the  sudden  sun  at  dawn, 
A  double  handful  of  heaped  gold, 
Why  you,  perhaps,  might  understand 
How  splendid  and  how  queenly  she 
Uprose  beside  that  wood-set  sea. 

The  storm-worn  ship  scarce  seemed  to 

creep 
From   wave   to  wave.       It   scarce    could 

keep- 
How  still  this  fair  girl  stood,  how  fair! 
How  tall  her  presence  as  she  stood 
Between  that  vast  sea  and  west  wood! 
How  large  and  liberal  her  soul, 
How  confident,  how  purely  chare, 
How  trusting;  how  untried  the  whole 
Great  heart,  grand  faith,  that  blossomed 

there. 

XVI. 

Ay,  she  was  as  Madonna  to 
The  tawny,  lawless,  faithful  few 
Who  touched  her  hand  and  knew  her  soul: 
She  drew  them,  drew  them  as  the  pole 
Points  all  things  to  itself. 

She  drew 

Men  upward  as  a  moon  of  spring, 
High  wheeling,  vast  and  bosom-full, 
Half  clad  in  clouds  and  white  as  wool, 
Draws  all  the  strong  seas  following. 

Yet  still  she  moved  as  sad,  as  lone 
As  that  same  moon  that  leans  above, 
And  seems  to  search  high  heaven  through 
For  some  strong,  all  sufficient  love, 
For  one  brave  love  to  be  her  own, 
Be  all  her  own  and  ever  true. 

Oh,  I  once  knew  a  sad,  sweet  dovo 
That  died  for  such  sufficient  love, 


74 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


Such  high,  white  love  with  wings  to  soar, 
That  looks  love  level  in  the  face, 
Nor  wearies  love  with  leaning  o'er 
To  lift  love  level  to  her  place. 

XVII. 

How  slow  before  the  sleeping  breeze, 
That  stranger  ship  from  under  seas! 
How  like  to  Dido  by  her  sea, 
When  reaching  arms  imploringly, — 
Her  large,  round,  rich,  impassiond  arms, 
Tossed  forth  from  all  her  storied  charms — 
This  one  lone  maiden  leaning  stood 
Above  that  sea,  beneath  that  wood! 

The  ship  crept  strangely  up  the  seas; 
Her  shrouds   seemed   shreds,    her  masts 

seemed  trees, — 

Strange  tattered  trees  of  toughest  bough 
That  knew  no  cease  of  storm  till  now. 
The  maiden  pitied  her;  she  prayed 
Her  crew  might  come,  nor  feel  afraid; 
She  prayed  the  winds  might  come, — they 

came, 
As  birds  that  answer  to  a  name. 

The  maiden  held  her  blowing  hair 
That  bound  her  beauteous  self  about; 
The  sea-winds  housed  within  her  hair; 
She  let  it  go,  it  blew  in  rout 
About  her  bosom  full  and  bare. 
Her  round,  full  arms  were  free  as  air, 
Her   high   hands    clasped  as   clasped  in 
prayer. 

XVIII. 

The  breeze  grew  bold,  the  battered  ship 
Began  to  flap  her  weary  wings; 
The  tall,  torn  masts  began  to  dip 
And  walk  the  wave  like  living  things. 
She  rounded  in,  moved  up  the  stream, 
She  moved  like  some  majestic  dream. 

The  captain  kept  her  deck.    He  stood 
A  Hercules  among  his  men; 
And  now  he  watched  the  sea,  and  then 


He  peered  as  if  to  pierce  the  wood. 
He  now  looked  back,  as  if  pursued, 
Now  swept  the  sea  with  glass  as  though 
He  fled,  or  feared  some  prowling  foe. 

Slow  sailing  up  the  river's  mouth, 
Slow  tacking  north,  slow  tacking  south, 
He  touched  the  overhanging  wood; 
He  kept  his  deck,  his  tall  black  mast 
Touched  tree-top  mosses  as  he  passed; 
He  touched   the  steep  shore  where   she 
stood. 

XIX. 

Her  hands  still  clasped  as  if  in  prayer, 
Sweet  prayer  set  to  silentness; 
Her  sun-browned  throat  uplifted,  bare 
And  beautiful. 

Her  eager  face 

Illumed  with  love  and  tenderness, 
And  all  her  presence  gave  such  grace, 
That  she  seemed  more  than  mortal,  fair. 

xx. 

He  saw.    He  could  not  speak.    No  more 
With  lifted  glass  he  swept  the  sea; 
No  more  he  watched  the  wild  new  shore. 
Now  foes  might  come,  now  friends  might 

flee; 

He  could  not  speak,  he  would  not  stir, — 
He  saw  but  her,  he  feared  but  her. 

The  black  ship  ground  against  the  shore, 
With  creak  and  groan  and  rusty  clank, 
And  tore  the  mellow  blossomed  bank; 
She  ground  against  the  bank  as  one 
With  long  and  weary  journeys  done, 
That  will  not  rise  to  journey  more. 

Tet  still  tall  Jason  silent  stood 
And  gazed  against  that  sea-washed  wood, 
As  one  whose  soul  is  anywhere. 
All  seemed  so  fair,  so  wondrous  fair! 
At  last  aroused,  he  stepped  to  land 
Like  some  Columbus;  then  laid  hand 
On  lands  and  fruits,  and  rested  there. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


XXI 

He  fonnd  all  fairer  than  fair  morn 
In  sylvan  land,  where  waters  run 
With  downward  leap  against  the  sun, 
And  full-grown  sudden  May  is  born. 
He  found  her  taller  than  tall  corn 
Tiptoe  in  tassel;  found  her  sweet 
As  vale  where  bees  of  Hybla  meet. 

An  unblown  rose,  an  unread  book; 
A  wonder  in  her  wondrous  eyes; 
A  large,  religious,  steadfast  look 
Of  faith,  of  trust, — the  look  of  one 
New  fashioned  in  fair  Paradise. 

He  read  this  book — read  on  and  on 
From  title  page  to  colophon: 
As  in  cool  woods,  some  summer  day, 
You  find  delight  in  one  sweet  lay, 
And  so  entranced  read  on  and  on 
From  title  page  to  colophon. 

XXII. 

And  who  was  he  that  rested  there, — 
This  giant  of  a  grander  day, 
This  Theseus  of  a  nobler  Greece, 
This  Jason  of  the  golden  fleece? 
Aye,  who  was  he?    And  who  were  they 
That  came  to  seek  the  hidden  gold 
Long  hollowed  from  the  pirate's  hold? 
I  do  not  know.    You  need  not  carer 


They    loved,     this    maiden    and    this 

man, 

And  that  is  all  I  surely  know, — 
The  rest  is  as  the  winds  that  blow. 
He  bowed  as  brave  men  bow  to  fate, 
Yet  proud  and  resolute  and  bold; 
She  shy  at  first,  and  coyly  cold, 
Held  back  and  tried  to  hesitate, — 
Half  frightened  at  this  love  that  ran 
Hard  gallop  till  her  hot  heart  beat 
Like  sounding  of  swift  courser's  feet. 


XXIII. 

Two   strong  streams   of    a  land   must 

run 

Together  surely  as  the  sun 
Succeeds  the  moon.     Who  shall  gainsay 
The  gods  that  reign,  that  wisely  reigu? 
Love  is,  love  was,  shall  be  again. 
Like  death,  inevitable  it  is; 
Perchance,  like  death,  the  dawn  of  bliss. 
Let  us,  then,  love  the  perfect  day, 
The  twelve  o'clock  of  life,  and  stop 
The  two  hands  pointing  to  the  top, 
And  hold  them  tightly  while  we  may. 

XXIV. 

How  beautiful  is  love!     The  walks 
By  wooded  ways;  the  silent  talks 
Beneath  the  broad  and  fragrant  bough. 
The  dark  deep   wood,   the    dense   black 

dell, 

Where  scarce  a  single  gold  beam  fell 
From  out  the  sun. 

They  rested  now 

On  mossy  trunk.     They  wandered  then 
Where  never  fell  the  feet  of  men. 
Then  longer  walks,  then  deeper  woods. 
Then  sweeter  talks,  sufficient  sweet, 
In  denser,  deeper  solitudes, — 
Dear  careless  ways  for  careless  feet; 
Sweet  talks  of  paradise  for  two, 
And  only  two  to  watch  or  woo. 

She  rarely  spake.     All  seemed  a  dream 
She  would  not  waken  from.     She  lay 
All  night  but  waiting  for  the  day, 
When  she  might  see  his  face,  and  deem 
This  man,  with  ail  his  perils  passed, 
Had  found  sweet  Lotus-land  at  last. 

XXV. 

The  year  waxed  fervid,  and  the  sun 
Fell  central  down.     The  forest  lay 
A-quiver  in  the  heat.     The  sea 
Below  the  steep  bank  seemed  to  run 
A  molten  sea  of  gold. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


Away 

Against  the  gray  and  rock-built  isles 
That  broke  the  molten  watery  miles 
Where  lonesome  sea-cows  called  all  day, 
The  sudden  sun  smote  angrily. 

Therefore  the  need  of  deeper  deeps, 
Of  denser  shade  for  man  and  maid, 
Of  higher  heights,  of  cooler  steeps, 
Where  all  day  long  the  sea-wind  stayed. 

They  sought  the  rook-reared  steep.     The 

breeze 

Swept  twenty  thousand  miles  of  seas; 
Had  twenty  thousand  things  to  say, 
Of  love,  of  lovers  of  Cathay, 
To  lovers  'mid  these  mossy  trees. 

XXVI. 

To  left,  to  right,  below  the  height, 
Below  the  wood  by  wave  and  stream, 
Plumed  pampas  grass  did  wave  and  gleam 
And  bend  their  lordly  plumes,  and  run 
And  shake,  as  if  in  very  fright 
Before  sharp  lances  of  the  sun. 

They  saw  the  tide-bound,  battered  ship 
Creep  close  below  against  the  bank; 
They  saw  it  cringe  and  shrink;  it  shrank 
As  shrinks  some  huge  black  beast  with 

fear 

When  some  uncommon  dread  is  near. 
They  heard  the  melting  resin  drip, 
As  drip  the  last  brave  blood-drops  when 
Red  battle  waxes  hot  with  men. 

XXVII. 

Yet  what  to  her  were  burning  seas, 
Or  what  to  him  was  forest  flame  ? 
They  loved;  they  loved  the  glorious  trees; 
The  gleaming  tides  might  rise  or  fall, — 
They  loved  the  lisping  winds  that  came 
From  sea-lost  spice-set  isles  unknown, 
With  breath  not  warmer  than  their  own; 
They  loved,  they  loved, — and  that  was  all. 


XXVIII. 

Full  noon!     Above,  the  ancient  moss 
From  mighty  boughs  swang  slow  across, 
As  when  some  priest  slow  chants  a  prayer 
And  swings  sweet  smoke  and  perfumed  air 
From  censer  swinging — anywhere. 

He  spake  of  love,  of  boundless  love, — 
Of  love  that  knew  no  other  land, 
Or  face,  or  place,  or  anything; 
Of  love  that  like  the  wearied  dove 
Could  light  nowhere,  but  kept  the  wing 
Till  she  alone  put  forth  her  hand 
And  so  received  it  in  her  ark 
From  seas  that  shake  against  the  dark! 

Her  proud  breast  heaved,  her  pure,  bare 

breast 

Hose  like  the  waves  in  their  unrest 
When  counter  storms  possess  the  seas. 
Her  mouth,  her  arch,  uplifted  mouth, 
Her  ardent  mouth  that  thirsted  so,— 
No  glowing  love  song  of  the  South 
Can  say;  no  man  can  say  or  know 
Such  truth  as  lies  beneath  such  trees. 

Her  face  still  lifted  up.     And  she 
Disdained  the  cup  of  passion  he 
Hard  pressed  her  panting  lips  to  touch. 
She  dashed  it  by,  uprose,  and  she 
Caught  fast   her  breath.     She  trembled 

much, 

Then  sudden  rose  full  height,  and  stood 
An  empress  in  high  womanhood: 
She  stood  a  tower,  tall  as  when 
Proud  Roman  mothers  suckled  men 
Of  old-time  truth  and  taught  them  such. 

XXIX. 

Her  soul  surged  vast  as  space  is.     She 
Was  trembling  as  a  courser  when 
His  thin  flank  quivers,  and  his  feet 
Touch  velvet  on  the  turf,  and  he 
Is  all  afoam,  alert  and  fleet 
As  sunlight  glancing  on  the  sea, 
And  full  of  triumph  before  men. 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


77 


At  last  she  bended  some  her  face, 
Half  leaned,  then  put  him  back  a  pace, 
And  met  his  eyes. 

Calm,  silently 

Her  eyes  looked  deep  into  his  eyes, — 
As  maidens  search  some  mossy  well 
And  peer  in  hope  by  chance  to  tell 
By  image  there  what  future  lies 
Before  them,  and  what  face  shall  be 
The  pole-star  of  their  destiny. 

Pure  Nature's  lover!    Loving  him 
With  love  that  made  all  pathways  dim 
And  difficult  where  he  was  not, — 
Then  marvel  not  at  forms  forgot. 
And  who  shall  chide  ?    Doth  priest  know 

aught 

Of  sign,  or  holy  unction  brought 
From  over  seas,  that  ever  can 
Make  man  love  maid  or  maid  love  man 
One  whit  the  more,  one  bit  the  less, 
For  all  his  mummeries  to  bless  ? 
Yea,  all  his  blessings  or  his  ban  ? 

The  winds  breathed  warm  as  Araby; 
She  leaned  upon  his  breast,  she  lay 
A  wide-winged  swan  with  folded  wing. 
He  drowned  his  hot  face  in  her  hair, 
He  heard  her  great  heart  rise  and  sing; 
He  felt  her  bosom  swell. 

The  air 

Swooned  sweet  with  perfume  of  her  form. 
Her  breast  was  warm,  her  breath  was  warm, 
And  warm  her  warm  and  perfumed  mouth 
As  summer  journeys  through  the  south. 

XXX. 

The  argent  sea  surged  steep  below, 
Surged  languid  in  such  tropic  glow; 
And  two  great  hearts  kept  surging  so! 

The  fervid  kiss  of  heaven  lay 
Precipitate  on  wood  and  sea. 
Two  great  souls  glowed  with  ecstacy, 
The  sea  glowed  scarce  as  warm  as  they. 


XXXI. 

'Twas  love's  warm  amber  afternoon. 
Two  far-off  pheasants  thrummed  a  tune, 
A  cricket  clanged  a  restful  air. 
The  dreamful  billows  beat  a  rune 
Like  heart  regrets. 

Around  her  head 

There  shone  a  halo.     Men  have  said 
'Twas  from  a  dash  of  Titian 
That  flooded  all  her  storm  of  hair 
In  gold  and  glory.     But  they  knew, 
Yea,  all  men  know  there  ever  grew 
A  halo  round  about  her  head 
Like  sunlight  scarcely  vanished. 

XXXII. 

How  still  she  was!     She  only  knew 

His  love.     She  saw  no  life  beyond. 

She  loved  with  love  that  only  lives 

Outside  itself  and  selfishness, — 

A  love  that  glows  in  its  excess; 

A  love  that  melts  pure  gold,  and  gives 

Thenceforth  to  all  who  come  to  woo 

No  coins  but  this  face  stamped  thereon, — 

Ay,  this  one  image  stamped  upon 

Pure  gold,  with  some  dim  date  long  gone. 

XXXIII. 

They  kept  the  headland  high;  the  ship 
Below  began  to  chafe  her  chain, 
To  groan  as  some  great  beast  in  pain: 
While  white  fear  leapt  from  lip  to  lip: 
"  The  woods  on  fire!  the  woods  in  flame! 
Come  down  and  save  us  in  God's  name!" 

He  heard!  he  did  not  speak  or  stir, — 
He  thought  of  her,  of  only  her, 
While  flames  behind,  before  them  lay 
To  hold  the  stoutest  heart  at  bay! 

Strange  sounds  were  heard  far  up  the 

flood, 
Strange,   savage   sounds  that  chilled  the 

blood! 
Then  sudden  from  the  dense,  dark  wood 


78 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


Above,  about  them  where  they  stood 
Strange,  hairy  beasts  came  peering  out; 
And  now  was  thrust  a  long  black  snout, 
And  now  a  dusky  mouth.     It  was 
A  sight  to  make  the  stoutest  pause. 

"  Cut  loose  the  ship!"  the  black  mate 

cried; 

"  Cut  loose  the  ship!"  the  crew  replied. 
They  drove  into  the  sea.     It  lay 
As  light  as  ever  middle  day. 

And  then  a  half-blind  bitch  that  sat 
All  slobber-mouthed,  and  monkish  cowled 
With  great,  broad,  floppy,  leathern  ears 
Amid  the  men,  rose  up  and  howled, 
And  doleful  howled  her  plaintive  fears, 
While  all  looked  mute  aghast  thereat. 
It  was  the  grimmest  eve,  I  think, 
That  ever  hung  on  Hades'  brink. 
Great  broad-winged  bats  possessed  the  air, 
Bats  whirling  blindly  everywhere; 
It  was  such  troubled  twilight  eve 
As  never  mortal  would  believe. 

XXXIV. 

Some  say  the  crazed  hag  lit  the  wood 
In  circle  where  the  lovers  stood; 
Some  say  the  gray  priest  feared  the  crew 
Might  find  at  last  the  hoard  of  gold 
Long  hidden  from  the  black  ship's  hold,— 
I  doubt  me  if  men  ever  knew. 
But  such  mad,  howling,  flame-lit  shore 
No  mortal  ever  knew  before. 

Huge  beasts  above  that  shining  sea, 
Wild,  hideous  beasts  with  shaggy  hair, 
With  red  mouths  lifting  in  the  air, 
All  piteous  howled,  and  plaintively, — 
The  wildest  sounds,  the  weirdest  sight 
That  ever  shook  the  walls  of  night. 

How  lorn  they  howled,  with  lifted  head, 
To  dim  and  distant  isles  that  lay 
Wedged  tight  along  a  line  of  red, 
Caught  in  the  closing  gates  of  day 


Twixt  sky  and  sea  and  far  away,— 
It  was  the  saddest  sound  to  hear 
That  ever  struck  on  human  ear. 

They  doleful  called;  and  answered  they 
The  plaintiff  sea-cows  far  away, — 
The  great  sea-cows  that  called  from  isles, 
Away  across  red  flaming  miles, 
With  dripping  mouths  and  lolling  tongue, 
As  if  they  called  for  captured  young, — 

The  huge  sea-cows  that  called  the  whiles 
Their  great  wide  mouths  were  mouthing 

moss; 

And  still  they  doleful  called  across 
From  isles  beyond  the  watery  miles. 
No  sound  can  half  so  doleful  be 
As  sea-cows  calling  from  the  sea. 

XXXV. 

The  sun,  outdone,  lay  down.     He  lay 
In  seas  of  blood.     He  sinking  drew 
The  gates  of  sunset  sudden  to, 
And  they  in  shattered  fragments  lay. 
Then  night  came,  moving  in  mad  flame; 
Then  full  night,  lighted  as  he  came, 
As  lighted  by  high  summer  sun 
Descending  through  the  burning  blue. 
It  was  a  gold  and  amber  hue, 
Aye,  all  hues  blended  into  one. 

The  moon  came  on,  came  leaning  low. 
The  moon    spilled    splendor   where    she 

came, 

And  filled  the  world  with  yellow  flame 
Along  the  far  sea-isles  aglow; 
She  fell  along  that  amber  flood, 
A  silver  flame  in  seas  of  blood. 
It  was  the  strangest  moon,  ah  me! 
That  ever  settled  on  God's  sea, 

XXXVI. 

Slim  snakes  slid  down  from  fern  and 

grass, 

From  wood,  from  fen,  from  anywhere; 
You  could  not  step,  you  would  not  pass, 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


79 


And  you  would  hesitate  to  stir, 
Lest  in  some  sudden,  hurried  tread 
Your  foot  struck  some  unbruised  head: 

It  seemed  like  some  infernal  dream; 
They  slid  in  streams  into  the  stream; 
They  curved,  and.sinuous  curved  across, 
Like  living  streams  of  living  moss, — 
There  is  no  art  of  man  can  make 
A  ripple  like  a  swimming  snake! 

XXXVII. 

Encompassed,  lorn,  the  lovers  stood, 
Abandoned  there,  death  in  the  air! 
That  beetling  steep,  that  blazing  wood — 
Eed  flame!  red  flame,  arid  everywhere! 
Yet  he  was  born  to  strive,  to  bear 
The  front  of  battle.     He  would  die 
In  noble  effort,  and  defy 
The  grizzled  visage  of  despair. 

He    threw    his    two    strong  arms   full 

length 

As  if  to  surely  test  their  strength; 
Then  tore  his  vestments,  textile  things 
That  could  but  tempt  the  demon  wings 
Of  flame  that  girt  them  .round  about, 
Then  threw  his  garments  to  the  air 
As  one  that  laughed  at  death,  at  doubt, 
And  like  a  god  stood  thewed  and  bare. 

She  did  not  hesitate;  she  knew 
The  need  of  action;  swift  she  threw 
Her  burning  vestments  by,  and  bound 
Her  wondrous  wealth  of  hair  that  fell 
An  all-concealing  cloud  around 
Her  glorious  presence,  as  he  came 
To  seize  and  bear  her  through  the  flame,  — 
An  Orpheus  out  of  burning  hell! 

He  leaned  above  her,  wound  his  arm 
About  her  splendor,  while  the  noon 
Of  flood  tide,  manhood,  flushed  his  face, 
And   high   flames   leapt    the   high    head 
land!— 


They  stood  as  twin-hewn  statues  stand, 
High  lifted  in  some  storied  place. 

He  clasped  her  close,  he  spoke  of  death,  — 
Of  death  and  love  in  the  same  breath. 
He  clasped  her  close;  her  bosom  lay 
Like  ship  safe  anchored  in  some  bay, 
Where  never  rage  or  rack  of  main 
Might  even  shake  her  anchor  chain. 

XXXVIII. 

The  flames!    They  could  not  stand  or 

stay; 

Beyond,  the  beetling  steep,  the  sea! 
But  at  his  feet  a  narrow  way, 
A  short  steep  path,  pitched  suddenly 
Safe  open  to  the  river's  beach, 
Where  lay  a  small  white  isle  in  reach, — 
A  small,  white,  rippled  isle  of  sand 
Where  yet  the  two  might  safely  land. 

And  there,  through  smoke  and  flame, 

behold 

The  priest  stood  safe,  yet  all  appalled! 
He  reached  the  cross;  he  cried,  he  called; 
He  waved  his  high-held  cross  of  gold. 
He  called  and  called,  he  bade  them  fly 
Through   flames   to   him,    nor    bide  and 
die! 

Her  lover  saw;  he  saw,  and  knew 
His  giant  strength  could  bear  her  through. 
And  yet  he  would  not  start  or  stir. 
He  clasped  her  close  as  death  can  hold, 
Or  dying  miser  clasp  his  gold, — 
His  hold  became  a  part  of  her. 

He  would  not  give  her  up!     He  would 
Not  bear  her  waveward  though  he  could! 
That  height  was  heaven;   the  wave  was 

hell. 
He    clasped    her    close, — what    else  had 

done 

The  manliest  man  beneath  the  sun? 
Was  it  not  well  ?  was  it  not  well  ? 


8o 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


O  man,  be  glad!  be  grandly  glad, 
And  king-like  walk  thy  ways  of  death! 
For  more  than  years  of  bliss  you  had 
That   one  brief    time  you   breathed   her 

breath, 

Yea,  more  than  years  upon  a  throne 
That  one  brief  time  you  held  her  fast, 
Soul  surged  to  soul,  vehement,  vast, — 
True  breast  to  breast,  and  all  your  own. 

Live  me  one  day,  one  narrow  night, 
One  second  of  supreme  delight 
Like  that,  and  I  will  blow  like  chaff 
The  hollow  years  aside,  and  laugh 
A  loud  triumphant  laugh,  and  I, 
King-like  and  crowned,  will  gladly  die. 

Oh,  but  to  wrap  my  love  with  flame! 
With  flame  within,  with  flame  without! 
Oh,  but  to  die  like  this,  nor  doubt — 
To  die  and  know  her  still  the  same! 
To  know  that  down  the  ghostly  shore 
Snow-white  she  walks  for  ever  more! 


XXXIX. 

He  poised  her,  held  her  high  in  air, — 
His  great  strong  limbs,    his  great  arm's 

length!— 

Then  turned  his  knotted  shoulders  bare 
As  birth-time  in  his  splendid  strength, 
And  strode  with  lordly,  kingly  stride 
To  where  the  high  and  wood-hung  edge 
Looked  down,  far  down  upon  the  molten 

tide. 

The  flames  leaped  with  him  to  the  ledge, 
The  flames  leapt  leering  at  his  side. 

XL. 

He  leaned  above  the  ledge.     Below 
He  saw  the  black  ship  grope  and  cruise,  — 
A  midge  below,  a  mile  below. 
His  limbs  were  knotted  as  the  thews 
Of  Hercules  in  his  death-throe. 


The   flame!     the   flame!      the  envious 

flame! 

She  wound  her  arms,  she  wound  her  hair 
About  his  tall  form,  grand  and  bare, 
To  stay  the  fierce  flame  where  it  came. 

The    black    ship,    like    some    moonlit 

wreck, 

Below  along  the  burning  sea 
Groped  on  and  on  all  silently, 
With  silent  pigmies  on  her  deck. 

That  midge-like  ship,  far,  far  below; 
That  mirage  lifting  from  the  hill! 
His  flame-lit  form  began  to  grow, — 
To  glow  and  grow  more  grandly  still. 
The  ship  so  small,  that  form  so  tall, 
It  grew  to  tower  over  all. 

A  tall  Colossus,  bronze  and  gold, 
As  if  that  flame-lit  form  were  he 
Who  once  bestrode  the  Rhodian  sea, 
And  ruled  the  watery  world  of  old: 
As  if  the  lost  Colossus  stood 
Above  that  burning  sea  of  wood. 

And  she  !  that  shapely  form  upheld, 
Held  high  as  if  to  touch  the  sky, 
What  airy  shape,  how  shapely  high, — 
What  goddess  of  the  seas  of  eld! 

Her  hand  upheld,  her  high  right  hand, 
As  if  she  would  forget  the  land; 
As  if  to  gather  stars,  and  heap 
The  stars  like  torches  there  to  light 
Her  hero's  path  across  the  deep 
To  some  far  isle  that  fearful  night. 

XLI. 

The  envious  flame,  one  moment  leapt 
Enraged  to  see  such  majesty, 
Such  scorn  of  death;  such  kingly  scorn  .  . , 


THE    SEA    OF    FIRE. 


8l 


Then  like  some  lightning-riven  tree 
They    sank     down    in    that    flame — and 

slept. 

Then  all  was  hushed  above  that  steep 
So  still  that  they  might  sleep  and  sleep, 
As  when  a  Summer's  day  is  born. 

At  last!  from  out  the  embers  leapt 
Two  shafts  of  light  above  the  night, — 
Two  wings  of  flame  that  lifting  swept 
In  steady,  calm,  and  upward  flight; 
Two  wings  of  flame  against  the  white 
Far-lifting,  tranquil,  snowy  cone; 


Two  wings  of  love,  two  wings  of  light, 

Far,  far  above  that  troubled  night, 

As  mounting,  mounting  to  God's  throne. 

XLII. 

And  all  night  long  that  upward  light 
Lit  up  the  sea-cow's  bed  below: 
The  far  sea-cows  still  calling  so 
It  seemed  as  they  must  call  all  night. 
All  night!  there  was  no  night.     Nay,  nay, 
There  was  no  night.     The  night  that  lay 
Between  that  awful  eve  and  day, — 
That  nameless  night  was  burned  away. 


Byron,  Keats,  Shelley,  Browning,  all  poets,  as  a  rule  fled  from  the  commercial  centers,  went  out  from  under 
the  mists  and  mirk  into  the  sunlight  to  sing.  I  warn  the  coming  poet  that  as  a  poet  his  place  is  not  in  any 
city.  Be  advised,  or  have  done  with'  aspiration  to  do  new  work  or  true  work.  The  Old  World  has  been  written, 
written  fully  and  bravely  and  well.  It  is  only  the  vast,  far,  New  World  that  needs  you.  He  who  is  aiming  to 
Bit  down  in  New  York,  or  any  city,  and  eat  dinners  that  are  cooked  and  seasoned  by  servants  who  are  not  given 
even  as  much  time  to  go  to  church  as  were  the  slaves  of  the  South,  may  be  good  enough  and  write  well  enough  to 
please  the  city  in  these  headlong  days,  but  the  real  poet  would  rather  house  with  a  half  savage  and  live  on  a 
sixpence  in  some  mountain  village,  as  did  Byron,  than  feast  off  the  board  of  Madame  Leo  Hunter  in  a  city.  I 
now  built  a  cabin  on  the  edge  of  Washington,  for  I  had  written  my  longest  and  worst  and  only  unkind  book, 
"The  Baroness  ot  New  York,"  on  such  dinners.  This  longest  poem  has  been  destroyed,  all  except  "The  Sea 
of  Fire,"  written  years  before  in  the  wilderness  of  Honduras  and  by  the  Oregon  sea  bank.  Nor  is  Washing 
ton  a  better  place  for  work  with  soul  or  heart  in  it.  Madame  Leo  Hunter  is  there  also,  persistent,  numerous, 
superficial  and  soulless  as  in  almost  any  great  center.  If  I  am  cruel,  O  my  coming  poets,  I  am  cruel  to  be  kind. 
Go  forth  in  the  sun,  away  into  the  wilds  or  contentedly  lay  aside  your  aspirations  of  song.  Now,  mark  you 
distinctly,  I  am  not  writing  for  nor  of  the  poets  of  the  Old  World  or  the  Atlantic  seaboard.  They  have  their 
work  and  their  ways  of  work,  great  and  good,  but  new  no  more.  My  notes  are  for  the  songtess  Alaskas,  Canadas, 
Californias,  the  Aztec  lands  and  the  Argentines  that  patiently  await  their  coming  prophets.  For  come  they  will; 
but  I  warn  them  they  will  have  to  gird  themselves  mightily  and  pass  through  fire,  and  perish,  many  a  man;  for 
these  new  worlds  will  be  whistling,  out  of  time,  the  tunes  of  the  old,  and  the  rich  and  the  proud  will  say  in  their 
insolence  and  ignorance,  "Pipe  thus,  for  thus  piped  the  famous  pipers  of  old;  piping  of  perished  kings,  of  wars, 
of  castle  walls,  of  battling  knights,  and  of  maids  betrayed.  Sing  as  of  old  or  be  silent,  for  we  know  not, 
we  want  not,  and  we  will  not,  your  seaa  of  colors,  your  forests  of  perfumes,  your  mountains  of  melodies." 


ISLES    OF   THE   AMAZONS. 


ISLES   OF   THE   AMAZONS. 
PART  I. 

Primeval  forests !  virgin  sod! 
That  Saxon  has  not  ravish' d  yet, 
Lo  !  peak  on  peak  in  stairways  set- 
In  stepping  stairs  that  reach  to  God! 

Here  we  are  free  as  sea  or  wind, 
For  here  are  set  Time's  snowy  tents 
In  everlasting  battlements 

Against  the  march  of  Saxon  mind. 


Far    up    in    the    hush    of    the    Amazon 

Kiver, 
And  mantled  and  hung  in  the  tropical 

trees, 
There  are  isles  as  grand  as  the  isles  of 

seas. 
And  the  waves  strike  strophes,  and  keen 

reeds  quiver, 
As  the  sudden   canoe   shoots  past   them 

and  over 
The  strong,  still  tide  to   the   opposite 

shore, 

Where  the  blue-eyed  men  by  the  syca 
more 

Sit  mending   their  nets  'neath  the  vine- 
twined  cover; 

Sit   weaving  the  threads  of  long,    strong 

grasses; 
They  wind  and  they  spin  on  the  clumsy 

wheel, 

Into  hammocks  red-hued  with  the  cochi 
neal, 
To  trade  with  the  single  black  ship  that 


With  foreign  old  freightage  of  curious  old 
store, 


And  still  and  slow  as  if  half  asleep, — 
A  cunning  old  trader  that  loves  to  creep 
Cautious  and  slow  in  the  shade  of   the 
shore. 

And  the  blue-eyed  men  that  are  mild  as 
the  dawns— 

Oh,  delicate  dawns  of  the  grand  Andes! 

Lift  up  soft  eyes  that  are  deep  like  seas, 
And  mild  yet  wild  as  the  red-white  fawns'; 

And   they  gaze  into  yours,  then  weave, 

then  listen, 
Then  look  in  wonder,  then  again  weave 

on, 
Then  again  look  wonder  that  you  are 

not  gone, 

While  the  keen  reeds  quiver  and  the  bent 
waves  glisten; 

But  they  say  no  word  while  they  weave 

and  wonder, 
Though   they   sometimes   sing,   voiced 

low  like  the  dove, 
And  as  deep  and  as  rich  as  their  tropical 

love, 

A-weaving  their  net  threads  through  and 
under. 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


A  pure,  true  people  you  may   trust  are 

these 
That   weave  their   threads    where    the 

quick  leaves  quiver; 
And  this  is  their  tale  of  the  Isles  of  the 

river, 

And  the  why  that  their  eyes  are  so  blue 
like  seas: 

The  why  that   the   men  draw   water  and 

tear 
The  wine  or  the  water  in  the  wild  boar 

skin, 
And  do  hew  the  wood  and  weave  and 

spin, 

And  so  bear  with  the  women  full  burthen 
and  share. 

A  curious  old  tale  of  a   curious  old  time, 
That  is  told  you  betimes  by  a  quaint 

old  crone, 
Who  sits  on  the  rim  of  an  island  alone, 

As  ever  was  told  you  in  story  or  rhyme. 

Her  brown,  bare  feet  dip  down  to  the  river, 
And   dabble  and  plash  to  her   mono 
tone, 
As  she  holds  in  her  hands   a   strange 

green  stone, 

And  talks  to  the  boat  where  the  bent  reeds 
quiver. 

And  the  quaint  old  crone  has  a  singular 

way 
Of  holding  her  head  to  the  side  and 

askew, 
And  smoothing  the  stone  in  her  palms 

all  day 

Assaying  "  I've  nothing  at  all  for  you," 
Until  you  have  anointed    her  palm,  and 

you 
Have  touched  on  the  delicate  spring  of 

a  door 

That  silver  has  opened  perhaps  before; 
For  woman   is   woman    the   wide  world 
through. 


The  old  near  truth  on  the  far  new  shore, 
I  bought  and  I  paid  for  it;  so  did  you; 
The  tale  may  be  false  or  the  tale  may 
be  true; 

I  give  as  I  got  it,  and  who  can  more? 

If  I  have  made  journeys  to  difficult  shores, 
And  woven  delusions  in  innocent  verse, 
If  none  be  the  wiser,  why,  who  is  the 
worse  ? 

The  field  it  was  mine,  the  fruit  it  is  yours. 

A  sudden  told  tale.     You  may  read  as  you 

run. 

A  part  of  it  hers,  some  part  is  my  own, 
Crude,  and  too   carelessly   woven  and 

sown, 
As  I  sail'd  on  the  Mexican  seas  in  the  sun. 

'Twas   nations   ago,  when   the  Amazons 

were, 
That  a  fair    young  knight — says    the 

quaint  old  crone, 
With  her  head  sidewise,  as  she  smooths 

at  the  stone — 

Came  over  the  seas,  with  his  golden  hair, 
And  a  great  black  steed,   and  glittering 

spurs, 
With  a  woman's    face,   with  a  manly 

frown, 

A  heart  as  tender  and  as  true  as  hers, 
And  a  sword  that  had   come  from  cru 
saders  down. 

And  fairest,  and  foremost  in  love  as  in 

war 
Was  the  brave  young  knight  of  the  brave 

old  days. 
Of  all  the  knights,  with  their  knightly 

ways, 
That  had  journey'd  away  to  this  world 

afar 

In  the  name  of  Spain;  of  the  splendid  few 
Who  bore  her  banner  in  the  new-born 
world, 


84 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 


From  the  sea  rim  up  to  where  clouds  are 

curl'd, 

And   condors  beat  with  black  wings  the 
blue. 

He  was  born,  says  the  crone,  where  the 

brave  are  fair, 
And  blown  from  the  banks  of  the  Guad- 

alquiver, 
And  yet  blue-eyed,  with  the  Celt's  soft 

hair, 

With  never  a  drop  of  the  dark  deep  river 
Of  Moorish  blood  that  had  swept  through 

Spain, 
And   plash'd  the   world   with   its   tawny 

stain. 

He  sat  on  his  steed,  and  his  sword  was 

bloody 

With  heathen  blood :  the  battle  was  done; 
His  heart  rebell'd  and  rose  with  pity. 
For  crown'd  with  fire,  wreathed  and  ruddy 
Fell  antique  temples  built  up  to  the 

sun. 

Below  on  the  plain  lay  the  burning  city 
At  the  conqueror's  feet;  the  red  street 

Btrown 

With  dead,  with  gold,  and  with   gods 
overthrown. 

And   the  heathen  pour'd,   in   a   helpless 

flood, 
With  never  a   wail  and  with   never   a 

blow, 

At  last,  to  even  provoke  a  foe, 
Through  gateways,  wet  with  the  pagan's 
blood. 

"Ho,  forward!  smite! "but  the  minstrel 

linger'd, 
He  reach'd  his  hand  and  he  touch'd  the 

rein, 
He  hunim'd  an  air,  and  he  toy'd  and  fin- 

ger'd 
The  arching  neck  and  the  glossy  mane. 


He  rested  the  heel,  he  rested  the  hand, 
Though  the  thing  was  death  to  the  man 

to  dare 
To  doubt,  to  question,  to  falter  there, 

Nor  heeded  at  all  to  the  hot  command. 

He  wiped  his  steel  on  his  black  steed's 

mane, 
He  sheathed  it  deep,  then  look'd  at  the 

sun, 
Then   counted   his   comrades,   one    by 

one, 

With  booty  returning  from  the  plunder'd 
plain. 

He  lifted  his  face  to  the  flashing  snow, 
He  lifted  his  shield  of  steel  as  he  sang, 
And  he  flung  it  away  till  it  clang'd  and 
rang 

On  the  granite  rocks  in  the  plain  below. 

He  cross'd  his  bosom.     Made  overbold, 
He  lifted  his  voice  and  sang,  quite  low 
At  first,  then  loud  in  the  long  ago, 

When  the  loves  endured  though  the  days 
grew  old. 

They  heard   his   song,   the  chief  on   the 

plain 
Stood  up  in  his  stirrups,  and,  sword  in 

hand, 
He  cursed  and  he  call'd  with  a  loud 

command 

To  the  blue-eyed  boy  to  return  again; 
To  lift  his  shield  again  to  the  sky, 
And  come  and  surrender  his  sword  or 

die. 

He  wove  his  hand  in  the  stormy  mane, 
He  lean'd  him  forward,  he  lifted  the  rein, 
He    struck  the    flank,    he    wheel'd    and 

sprang, 

And  gaily  rode  in  the  face  of  the  sun, 
And  bared  his  sword  and  he  bravely  sang, 
"  Ho!   come  and  take  it!  "    but  there 
came  not  one. 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


And  so  he  sang  with  his  face  to  the  south: 
"  I  shall  go;  I  shall  search  for  the  Ama 
zon  shore, 
Where  the  curses  of  man  they  are  heard 

no  more, 
And  kisses  alone  shall  embrace  the  mouth. 

"1  shall  journey  in  search  of  the  Incan 
Isles, 

Go  far  and  away  to  traditional  land, 
Where  love  is  queen  in  a  crown  of  smiles, 

And  battle  has  never  imbrued  a  hand; 

"Where  man  has  never  despoil'd  or  trod; 

Where  woman's  hand  with  a  woman's 
heart 

Has  fashion'd  an  Eden  from  man  apart, 
And  walks  in  her  garden  alone  with  God. 

"  I  shall  find  that  Eden,  and  all  my  years 
Shall  sit  and  repose,  shall  sing  in  the 

sun; 
And  the  tides  may  rest  or  the  tides  may 

run, 
And  men  may  water  the  world  with  tears; 

"  And  the  years  may  come  and  the  years 

may  go, 
And  men  make  war,  may  slay  and  be 

slain, 

But  I  not  care,  for  I  never  shall  know 
Of  man,  or  of  aught  that  is  man's  again. 

"The  waves  may  battle,  the  winds  may 

blow, 
The  mellow  rich  moons  may  ripen  and 

fall, 
The  seasons  of  gold  they  may  gather  or 

go, 
The  mono  may  chatter,   the  paroquet 

call, 

And  I  shall  not  heed,  take  note,  or  know, 
If  the  Fates  befriend,  or  if  ill  befall, 
Of  worlds  without,  or  of  worlds  at  all, 
Of  heaven  above,  or  of  hades  below." 


'Twas  the  song  of  a  dream  and  the  dream 

of  a  singer, 

Drawn  fine  as  the  delicate  fibers  of  gold, 

And  broken  in  two  by  the  touch  of  a  finger, 

And  blown  as  the  winds  blow,  rent  and 

roll'd 
In  dust,  and  spent  as  a  tale  that  is  told. 

Alas!  for  his  dreams  and  the  songs  he  sung; 
The  beasts  beset  him;  the  serpents  they 

hung, 

Red-tougued  and  terrible,  over  his  head. 
He  clove  and  he  thrust  with  his  keen, 

quick  steel, 
He  coax'd  with  his  hand,  he  urged  with 

his  heel, 

Till  his  steel  was  broken,  and  his  steed 
lay  dead. 

He  toil'd  to  the  river,  he  lean'd  intent 
To  the  wave,  and  away  to  the  islands 

fair, 
From    beasts    that    pursued,    and     he 

breathed  a  prayer; 
For  soul  and  body  were  well-nigh  spent. 

'Twas   the  king  of  rivers,   and  the  Isles 

were  near; 
Yet  it  moved  so  strange,   so   still,   so 

strong, 

It  gave  no  sound,  not  even  the  song 
Of  a  sea-bird  screaming  defiance  or  fear. 

It  was  dark  and  dreadful !    Wide  like  an 

ocean, 

Much  like  a  river  but  more  like  a  sea, 
Save  that  there  was  naught  of  the  turbu 
lent  motion 
Of  tides,  or  of  winds  blown  abaft,  or  a-lee. 

Yea,  strangely  strong  was  the  wave  and 

slow, 

And  half-way  hid  in  the  dark,  deep  tide, 
Great  turtles,  they  paddled  them  to  and  fro, 
And  away  to  the  Isles  and  the  opposite 
side. 


86 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


The  nude  black  boar  through  abundant 

grass 
Stole  down  to  the  water  and  buried  his 

nose, 
And  crunch'd  white  teeth  till  the  bubbles 

rose 

As  white  and  as  bright  as  are   globes  of 
glass. 

Yea,  steadily  moved  it,  mile  upon  mile, 
Above  and  below  and  as  still  as  the  air; 
The  bank  made  slippery  here  and  there 

By  the  slushing  slide  of  the  crocodile. 

The  great  trees  bent  to  the  tide  like  slaves; 
They  dipp'd  their  boughs  as  the  stream 

swept  on, 
And  then  drew  back,  then  dipp'd  and 

were  gone 
Away  to  the  sea  with  the  resolute  waves. 

The  land  was  the  tide's;  the  shore  was 

undone; 

It  look'd  as  the  lawless,  unsatisfied  seas 
Had  thrust  up  an  arm  through  the  tan 
gle  of  trees, 

And  clutch'd  at  the  citrons  that  grew  in  the 
sun; 

And  clutch'd  at  the  diamonds  that  hid  in 

the  sand, 
And  laid  heavy  hand  on  the  gold,  and  a 

hand 
On  the  redolent  fruits,   on  the  ruby-like 

wine, 
On  the  stones  like  the  stars  when  the  stars 

are  divine; 

Had  thrust  through  the  rocks  of  the  ribb'd 

Andes; 
Had  wrested  and   fled;  and  had  left  a 

waste 
And  a  wide  way  strewn  in  precipitate 

haste, 
As  he  bore  them  away  to  the  buccaneer  seas. 


O,  heavens,  the  eloquent  song  of  the  silence! 
Asleep  lay  the  sun  in  the  vines,  on  the  sod, 
And    asleep   in   the    sun  lay  the  green- 
girdled  islands, 

As  rock'd  to  their  rest  in  the  cradle  of 
God. 

God's  poet  is  silence!    His  song  is  un 
spoken, 
And  yet  so  profound,  so  loud,  and  so 

far, 
It  fills  you,  it  thrills  you  with  measures 

unbroken, 

And  as  still,  and  as  fair,  and  as  far  as  a 
star. 

The  shallow  seas  moan.    From  the  first 

they  have  mutter'd, 
As  a  child  that  is  fretted,  and  weeps  at 

its  will.     .    . 
The  poems  of  God  are  too  grand  to  be 

utter'd: 

The  dreadful  deep  seas  they  are  loudest 
when  still. 

"I  shall  fold  my  hands,  for  this  is  the 

river 
Of  death,"  he  said,  "and  the  sea-green 

isle 
Is  an  Eden  set  by  the  Gracious  Giver 

Wherein  to  rest."   He  listen'd  the  while, 
Then  lifted  his  head,  then  lifted  a  hand 
Arch'd  over  his  brow,  and  he  lean'd  and 
listen'd, — 

'Twas  only  a  bird  on  a  border  of  sand,  — 
The  dark   stream   eddied  and  gleam'd 

and  glisten'd, 
And  the  martial  notes  from  the  isle  were 

gone,— 
Gone  as  a  dream  dies   out  with    the 

dawn. 

'Twas  only  a  bird  on  a  border  of  sand, 
Slow  piping,    and   diving   it  here  and 
there, 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 


87 


Slim,   gray,  and  shadowy,  light  as  the 

air, 

That   dipp'd  below  from  a  point  of  the 
laud. 

"  Unto  God  a  prayer  and  to  love  a  tear, 
And  I  die,"  he  said,  "in  a  desert  here, 
So  deep  that  never  a  note  is  heard 
But  the  listless    song   of    that    soulless 
bird. 

"  The  strong  trees  lean  in  their  love  unto 

trees. 
Lock  arms  in  their  loves,   and  are  so 

made  strong, 
Stronger  than  armies;  aye,  stronger  than 


That  rush  from  their  caves  in  a  storm 
of  song. 

41 A  miser  of  old,  his  last  great  treasure 
Flung  far  in  the  sea,  and  he  fell  and  he 

died; 
And  so  shall  I  give,  O  terrible  tide, 

To  you  my  song  and  my  last  sad  measure. " 

He  blew  on  a  reed  by  the  still,  strong  river, 
Blew   low  at   first,   like  a  dream,  then 

long, 
Then  loud,  then  loud   as  the  keys  that 

quiver, 

And  fret  and  toss  with  their  freight  of 
song. 

He  sang  and  he  sang  with  a  resolute  will, 
Till  the   mono    rested    above    on    his 

haunches, 
And  held  his  head  to  the  side  and  was 

still,— 
Till  a  bird  blown   out  of  the  night  of 

branches 
Sang  sadder  than  love,  so  sweeter  than 

sad, 
Till  the  boughs  did  burthen  and  the 

reeds  did  fill 
With  beautiful  birds,  and  the  boy  was 

glad. 


Our  loves  they  are  told  by  the  myriad- 
eyed  stars, 

And  love  it  is  grand  in  a  reasonable  way, 

And  fame  it  is  good  in  its  way  for  a  day, 

Borne  dusty  from  books  and  bloody  from 

wars; 

And  death,  I  say,  is  an  absolute  need, 
And  a  calm   delight,  and  an  ultimate 

good; 
But  a  song  that  is  blown  from  a  watery 

reed 
By  a  soundless  deep  from  a  boundless 

wood, 

With  never  a  hearer  to  heed  or  to  prize 
But  God  and  the  birds  and  the  hairy 

wild  beasts, 
Is   sweeter  than    love,    than  fame,    or 

than  feasts, 
Or  any  thing  else  that  is  under  the  skies. 

The  quick  leaves  quiver'd,  and  the  sun 
light  danced; 
As  the  boy  sang  sweet,  and  the  birds 

said,   "Sweet;" 
And  the  tiger  crept  close,  and  lay  low 

at  his  feet, 

And  he  sheathed  his  claws  .as  he  listened 
entranced. 

The  serpent  that  hung  from  the  sycamore 

bough, 

And  sway'd  his  head  in  a  crescent  above, 
Had  folded  his  neck  to  the  white  limb  now, 
And  fondled  it  close  like  a  great  black 
love. 

But  the  hands  grew  weary,  the  heart  wax'd 

faint, 

The  loud  notes  fell  to  a  far-off  plaint, 
The  sweet  birds   echo'd  no  more,   "Oh, 

sweet," 
The  tiger    arose    and  unsheathed  his 

claws, 

The  serpent  extended  his  iron  jaws, 
And  the  frail  reed  shiver'd  and  fell  at  his 

feet. 


88 


ISLES    OP    THE   AMAZONS. 


A  sound  on  the  tide!  and  he  turu'd  and 

cried, 
"  Oh,  give  God  thanks,  for  they  come, 

they  come!  " 

He  look'd  out  afar  on  the  opaline  tide, 
Then   clasp'd  his  hands,  and  his  lips 
were  dumb. 

A    sweeping    swift    crescent    of    sudden 

canoes! 
As  light  as  the  sun  of  the  south  and  as 

soon, 

And  true  and  as  still  as  a  sweet  half- 
moon 

That  leans  from  the  heavens,  and  loves  and 
woos! 

The  Amazons  came  in  their  martial  pride, 
As  full  on  the  stream  as  a  studding  of 

stars, 

All  girded  in  armor  as  girded  in  wars, 
In    foamy    white    furrows    dividing    the 
tide. 

With  a  face  as  brown  as  the  boatmen's  are, 
Or  the  brave,  brown  hand  of  a  harvester; 

The  Queen  on  a  prow  stood  splendid  and 
tall, 

As  the  petulant  waters  did  lift  and  fall; 

Stood  forth  for  the  song,  half  lean'd  in 

surprise, 
Stood  fair  to  behold,  and  yet  grand  to 

behold, 
And  austere  in  her  face,  and  saturnine- 

soul'd, 

And  sad  and  subdued,  in  her  eloquent 
eyes. 


And  sad  were  they  all;  yet  tall  and  serene 
Of    presence,    but   silent,    and    brow'd 

severe; 
As  for  some  things  lost,  or  for  some  fair, 

green. 
And  beautiful  place,  to  the  memory  dear. 

"O  Motherof  God!  Thrice  merciful  saint! 
I  am  saved!  "  he  said,  and  he  wept  out 
right; 

Ay,  wept  as  even  a  woman  might, 
For  the  soul  was  full  and  the  heart  was 
faint. 

"Stay!  stay!"  cried  the  Queen,  and  she 

leapt  to  the  land, 

And  she  lifted  her  hand,  and  she  low 
ered  their  spears, 
"A  woman!  a  woman!    ho!  help!  give  a 

hand! 

A  woman!    a  woman!   I  know  by  the 
tears." 

Then   gently  as   touch   of  the   truest   of 

woman, 
They  lifted  him  up  from  the  earth  where 

he  fell, 
And  into  the  boat,  with  a  half  hidden 

swell 

Of  the  heart  that  was  holy  and  tenderly 
human. 

They  spoke  low-voiced  as  a  vesper  prayer; 
They  pillow'd   his    head   as    only   the 

hand 
Of  woman  can  pillow,  and  push'd  from 

the  land, 

And  the  Queen  she  sat  threading  the  gold 
of  his  hair. 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 


89 


PART  II. 

Forsake  those  People.     What  are  they 
That  laugh,  that  live,  that  love  by  rule? 
Forsake  the  Saxon.      Who  are  these 
That  shun  the  shadows  of  the  trees; 
The  perfumed  forests  ?   .  .  .  Go  thy  way, 
We  are  not  one.     I  will  not  please 
You:— fare  you  well,  O  wiser  fool! 

But  ye  who  love  me  : — Ye  who  love 
The   shaggy  forests,  fierce  delights 
Of  sounding  waterfalls,  of  heights 
That  hang  like  broken  moons  above, 
With  brows  of  pine  that  brush  the  sun, 
Believe  and  follow.     We  are  one: 
The  wild  man  shall  to  us  be  tame, 
The  woods  shall  yield  their  mysteries; 
The  stars  shall  answer  to  a  name, 
And  be  as  birds  above  the  trees. 


They  swept  to  their  Isles  through  the  fur 
rows  of  foam; 

They  alit  on  the  land,  as  love  hastening 
home, 

And  below  the  banana,  with  leaf  like  a 

tent, 
They  tenderly  laid  him,  they  bade  him 

take  rest, 

They  brought   him   strange  fishes  and 
fruits  of  the  best, 

And  he  ate  and  took  rest  with  a  patient 
content. 

They  watched  so  well  that  he  rose  up 

strong, 
And  stood  in  their  midst,  and  they  said, 

"  How  fair! " 
And  they  said,  "How  tall!"  And  they 

toy'd  with  his  hair. 


And    they  touched  his  limbs  and  they 

said,  "  How  long 
And  how  strong  they  are;  and  how  brave 

she  is, 
That  she  made  her  way  through  the 

wiles  of  man, 
That   she  braved  his   wrath    that    she 

broke  the  ban 
Of  his  desolate  life  for  the  love  of  this!  " 


They  wrought  for  him  armor  and  cunning 

attire, 
They  brought  him  a  sword  and  a  great 

shell  shield, 
And  implored  him  to  shiver  the  lance 

on  the  field, 

And  to  follow  their  beautiful  Queen  in 
her  ire. 


9o 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


But  he  took  him  apart;  then  the  Amazons 

came 

And  entreated   of  him   with   their  elo 
quent  eyes 
And  their  earnest  and  passionate  souls  of 

flame, 

And   the   soft,    sweet    words    that    »re 
broken  of  sighs, 


Broader    and    stronger    than    belts    of 

leather, 

Cunningly  fashion'd  and    blazon'd  'and 
boss'd — 


With  diamonds  circling  her,  stone  upon 

stone, 
Above  the  breast  where  the  borders  fail, 


To  be  one  of  their  own,  but  he  still  de-    j   Below  the  breast  where  the  fringes  zone, 


nied 

And  bow'd  and  abash'd  he  stole  further 
aside. 

He  stood  by  the  Palms  and  he  lean'd  in 

unrest, 
And    standing  alone,   looked   out   and 

afar, 
For  his  own  fair  land  where  the  castles 

are, 
With  irresolute  arms  on  a  restless  breast. 

He  re-lived  his  loves,  he  recall'd  his  wars, 
He  gazed  and  he  gazed  with  a  soul  dis 
tress 'd, 
Like  a  far  sweet  star  that  is  lost  in  the 

west, 
Till  the  day  was  broken  to  a  dust  of  stars. 

They  sigh'd,  and   they  left  him  alone  in 

the  care 
Of  faithfullest  matron;  they  moved  to 

the  field 
With  the  lifted  sword  and  the  sounding 

shield 
High  fretting  magnificent  storms  of  hair. 

And,   true  as  the  moon  in  her  march  of 

stars, 
The   Queen  stood  forth    in    her   fierce 

attire 

Worn  as  they  trained  or  worn  in  the  wars, 
As  bright  and  as  chaste  as  a  flash  of  fire. 

With  girdles  of  gold  and  of  silver  cross'd, 
And   plaited,    and   chased,  and   bound 
together, 


She  moved  in  a  glittering   garment  of 
mail. 

The  form  made  hardy  and  the  waist  made 

spare 
From   athlete    sports   and    adventures 

bold, 
The  breastplate;  fasten'd  with  clasps  of 

gold, 

Was  clasp'd,  as  close  as  the  breasts  could 
bear, — 

And  bound  and  drawn  to  a  delicate  span, 
It  flash'd  in  the  red  front  ranks  of  the 

field- 
Was  fashion'd  full  trim  in  its  intricate 

plan 

And   gleam 'd  as  a   sign,  as   well  as  a 
shield, 

That  the  virgin    Queen   was   unyielding 

still, 
And  pure  as  the  tides  that  around  her 

ran; 

True  to  her  trust,  and  strong  in  her  will 
Of  war,  and  hatred  to  the  touch  of  man. 

The  field  it  was  theirs  in    storm    or   in 

shine, 
So  fairly  they  stood  that  the  foe  came 

not 

To  battle  again,  and  the  fair  forgot 
The  rage  of  battle;  and  they  trimm'd  the 
vine, 


They  tended  the  fields  of  the  tall  green 
corn, 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


They  crush'd  the  grape  and  they  drew 

the  wine 
In  the  great  round  gourds  and  the  bended 

horn — 
And  they  lived  as  the  gods  in  the  days 

divine. 

They  bathed  in  the  wave  in  the  amber 

morn, 

They  took  repose  in  the  peaceful  shade 
Of  eternal  palms,  and  were  never  afraid; 
Yet  oft  did  they  sigh,  and  look  far  and 
forlorn. 

Where  the  rim  of  the  wave  was  weaving  a 

spell, 
And  the  grass  grew  soft  where  it  hid 

from  the  sun, 
Would  the  Amazons  gather  them  every 

one 

At  the  call  of  the  Queen  or  the  sound  of 
her  shell: 

Would  come  in  strides  through  the  kingly 

trees, 
And  train  and  marshal  them  brave  and 

well 

In  the  golden  noon,  in  the  hush  of  peace 
Where  the  shifting  shades  of   the  fan- 
palms  fell; 
Would  train  till  flush'd  and  as  warm  as 

wine: 
Would  reach  with   their  limbs,  would 

thrust  with  the  lance, 
Attack,  retire,  retreat  and  advance, 
Then  wheel  in  column,  then  fall  in  line; 
Stand  thigh  and   thigh  with  the   limbs 

made  hard 
And  rich  and  round  as  the  swift  limb'd 

pard, 

Or  a  racer  train'd,  or  a  white  bull  caught 
In  the  lasso's  toils,  where  the  tame  are 

not: 

Would  curve  as  the  waves  curve,  swerve 
in  line; 


Would  dash  through  the  trees,  would 

train  with  the  bow, 
Then  back  to  the  lines,  now  sudden, 

then  slow, 
Then  flash  their  swords  in  the  sun  at  a 

sign: 

Would  settle  the  foot  right  firmly  afront, 
Then  sound  the  shield  till  the  sound 

was  heard 
Afar,   as    the    horn    in    the    black    boar 

hunt; 

Yet,    strangest    of    all,    say   never    one 
word. 

When  shadows  fell  far  from  the  westward, 

and  when 
The  sun  had  kiss'd  hands  and  set  forth 

for  the  east, 
They  would  kindle  campfires  and  gather 

them  then, 
Well-worn  and  most  merry  with  song, 

to  the  feast. 

They  sang  of   all   things,    but   the  one, 

sacred  one, 
That  could  make  them  most  glad,  as 

they  lifted  the  gourd 
And  pass'd  it  around,  with  its  rich  purple 

hoard, 

From  the  island  that  lay  with  its  face  to 
the  sun. 

Though  lips  were  most  luscious,  and  eyes 

as  divine 
As  the  eyes  of  the  skies  that  bend  down 

from  above; 

Though    hearts   were    made    glad  and 
most  mellow  with  love, 

As  dripping  gourds  drain'd  of  their  bur 
thens  of  wine; 

Though  brimming,  and  dripping,  and  bent 
of  their  shape 

Were  the  generous  gourds  from  the  juice 
of  the  grape, 


92 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 


They  could  sing  not  of  love,  they  could 

breathe  not  a  thought 
Of  the  savor  of   life;  of  love  sought,   or 

unsought. 

Their  loves  they  were  not;  they  had  ban 
ished  the  name 
Of  man,  and  the  uttermost  mention  of 

love, — 
The  moonbeams  about  them,  the  quick 

stars  above, 
The  mellow-voiced  waves,  they  were  ever 

the  same, 

In  sign,  and  in  saying,  of  the  old  true  lies; 
But  they  took  no  heed;    no  answering 

sign, 

Save  glances  averted  and  half-hush'd  sighs 
Went  back  from  the  breasts  with  their 
loves  divine. 

They  sang  of  free  life  with  a  will,  and 

well, 
They  had  paid  for  it  well  when  the  price 

was  blood; 
They  beat  on  the  shield,  and  they  blew  on 

the  shell, 
When  their  wars  were  not,  for  they  held 

it  good 
To  be  glad,  and  to  sing  till  the  flush  of  the 

day, 
In  an  annual  feast,  when  the  broad  leaves 

fell; 
Yet  some  sang  not,  and  some  sighed, 

"Ah,  well !  "— 
For  there 's  far  less  left  you  to  sing  or  to 

say, 

When  mettlesome  love  is  banish'd,  I  ween — 
To  hint  at  as  hidden,   or   to   half  dis 
close 
In  the  swift  sword-cuts  of  the  tongue,  made 

keen 

With  wine  at  a  feast, — than  one  would 
suppose. 

So  the  days  wore  by,  but  they  brought  no 
rest 


To  the  minstrel  knight,  though  the  sun 

was  as  gold, 
And  the  Isles  were  green,  and  the  great 

Queen  blest 

In  the  splendor  of  arms,  and  as  pure  as 
bold. 

He  would  now  resolve  to  reveal  to  her  all, 
His  sex  and   his    race  in  a  well-timed 

song; 
And  his  love   of    peace,    his   hatred  of 

wrong, 

And  his  own  deceit,  though  the  sun  should 
fall. 

Then  again  he  would  linger,  and  knew  not 

how 
He  could  best  proceed,  and  deferr'd  him 

now 
Till  a  favorite    day,    then    the    fair  day 

came, 
And  still  he  delay 'd,  and  reproached  him 

the  same. 

And  he   still  said  nought,  but,  subduing 

his  head, 
He   wander'd  one    day    in    a    dubious 

spell 

Of  unutterable  thought  of  the  truth  un 
said, 
To  the  indolent  shore,  and  he  gather'd  a 

shell, 
And  he  shaped  its  point  to  his  passionate 

mouth, 
And  he  turn'd  to  a  bank  and  began  to 

blow, 
While  the  Amazons  trained  in  a  troop 

below— 

Blew    soft  and    sweet    as  a  kiss  of  the 
south. 

The  Amazons  lifted  with  glad  surprise, 
Stood  splendid  and  glad  and  look'd  far 
and  fair, 


ISLES    OF  THE    AMAZONS, 


93 


Set  forward  a  foot,  and  shook  back  their 

hair, 

Like  clouds  push'd  back  from  the  sun-lit 
skies. 

It  stirr'd  their  souls,  and  they  ceased  to 

train 
In  troop  by  the  shore,  as  the  tremulous 

strain 
Fell  down  from  the  hill  through  the  tas- 

selling  trees; 
And  a  murmur  of  song,  like  the  sound  of 

bees 


In  the  clover  crown  of  a  queenly  spring, 
Came  back  unto  him,  and  he  laid  the 

shell 

Aside  on  the  bank,  and  began  to  sing 
Of    eloquent    love;    and    the    ancient 

spell 
Of    passionate    song    was    his,    and    the 

Isle, 
As  waked  to  delight  from  its   slumber 

long, 

Came  back  in  echoes;  yet  all  this  while 
He  knew   not    at    all  the    sin  of    his 
song. 


94 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


PART  III. 

Come,  lovers,  come,  forget  your  pains! 

I  know  upon  this  earth  a  spot 
Where  clinking  coins,  that  clank  as  chains, 

Upon  the  souls  of  men,  are  not; 
Nor  man  is  measured  for  his  gains 
Of  gold  that  stream  with  crimson  stains. 

There  snow-topp'd  toioers  crush  the  clouds 
And  break  the  still  abode  of  stars, 

Like  sudden  ghosts  in  snowy  shrouds, 
New  broken  through  their  earthly  bars, 

And  condors  whet  their  crooked  beaks 

On  lofty  limits  of  the  peaks. 

O  men  that  fret  as  frets  the  main ! 
You  irk  me  with  your  eager  gaze 
Down  in  the  earth  Jor  fat  increase — 

Eternal  talks  of  gold  and  gain, 

Your  shalloio  wit,  your  shallow  ways, 

And  breaks  my  soul  across  the  shoal 

As  breakers  break  on  shallow  seas. 


They  bared  their  brows  to  the  palms  above, 
But  some  look'd  level   into  comrades' 

eyes, 
And    they    then    remember'd    that    the 

thought  of  lov,e 
Was  the  thing  forbidden,  and  they  sank 

in  sighs. 

They  turned  from  the  training,  to  heed  in 

throng 
To  the  old,  old  tale;  and  they  trained 

no  more, 
As  he  sang  of  love;  and  some  on  the 

shore, 

And  full  in  the  sound  of   the   eloquent 
song, 


With  -womanly  air  and  an  irresolute  will 
Went    listlessly    onward  as    gathering 

shells; 
Then  gazed  in  the  waters,  as  bound  by 

spells; 

Then  turned  to  the  song  and  sosigh'd,  and 
were  still. 

And  they  said  no  word.     Some  tapp'd  on 

the  sand 
With  the  sandal'd  foot,  keeping  time  to 

the  sound, 
In  a  sort  of  dream;  some  timed  with  the 

hand, 

And  one  held  eyes  full  of  tears  to  tha 
ground. 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


95 


She  thought  of  the  days  when  their  wars 

they  were  not, 
As  she  lean'd  and  listened  to  the  old,  old 

song, 
When  they  sang  of  their  loves,  and  she 

well  forgot 
Man's  hard  oppressions  and  a  world  of 

wrong. 

Like  a  pure  true  woman,  with  her  trust  in 

tears 

And  the  things  that  are  true,  she  re 
lived  them  in  thought, 
Though  hush'd  and  crush'd  in  the  fall  of 

the  years; 

She  lived  but  the  fair,  and  the  false  she 
forgot. 

As  a  tale  long  told,  or  as  things  that  are 

dreams 

The  quivering  curve  of  the  lip  it  confest 
The  silent  regrets,  and  the  soul  that  teems 
With  a  world  of  love  in  a  brave  true 
breast. 

Then  this  one,  younger,  who  had  known 

no  love, 
Nor  look'd  upon  man  but  in  blood  on 

the  field, 
She  bow'd  her  head,  and  she  leaned  on 

her  shield, 
And  her  heart  beat  quick  as  the  wings  of 

a  dove 
That  is  blown  from  the  sea,  where  the  rests 

are  not 
In  the  time  of  storms;  and  by  instinct 

taught 
Grew  pensive,  and  sigh'd;  as  she  thought 

and  she  thought 

Of  some  wonderful  things,  and — she  knew 
not  of  what. 

Then  this  one  thought  of  a  love  forsaken, 
She  thought  of  a  brown   sweet   babe, 
and  she  thought 


Of  the  bread-fruits  gather'd,  of  the  swift 

fish  taken 
In  intricate  nets,  like  a  love  well  sought. 

She  thought  of  the  moons  of  her  maiden 

dawn, 

Mellow'd  and  fair  with  the  forms  of  man; 
So  dearer  indeed  to  dwell  upon 
Than  the  beautiful  waves  that  around 
her  ran : 

So  fairer  indeed  than  the  fringes  of  light 
That  lie  at  rest  on  the  west  of  the  sea 

In  furrows  of  foam  on  the  borders  of  night, 
And  dearer  indeed  than  the  songs  to  be — 

Than  calling  of  dreams  from  the  opposite 

land, 
To  the  land  of  life,  and  of  journeys 

dreary, 
When  the  soul  goes  over  from  the  form 

grown  weary, 

And  walks  in  the  cool  of  the  trees  on  the 
sand. 

But  the  Queen  was  enraged  and  would 

smite  him  at  first 
With  the  sword  unto  death,  yet  it  seemed 

that  she  durst 
Not  touch  him  at  all;  and  she  moved  as  to 

chide, 
And  she  lifted  her  face,  and  she  frown'd 

at  his  side, 
Then  she  touch'd  on  his  arm;  then  she 

looked  in  his  eyes 
And  right  full  in  his  soul,  but  she  saw 

no  fear, 
In  the  pale  fair  face,   and  with  frown 

severe 
She  press'd  her  lips  as   suppressing  her 

sighs. 

She  banish'd  her  wrath,  she  unbended  her 

face, 

She  lifted  her  hand  and  put  back  his 
hair 


96 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


.  From  his  fair  sad  brow,  with  a  penitent 

air, 
And  forgave  him  all  with  nnuttered  grace. 

But  she  said  no  word,  yet  no  more  was 

severe; 
She  stood  as  subdued  by  the  side  of  him 

still, 
Then  averted  her  face  with  a  resolute 

will, 
As  to  hush  a  regret,  or  to  hide  back  a  tear. 

She  sighed  to  herself:  "A  stranger  is  this, 
And  ill  and  alone,  that  knows  not  at  all 
That  a  throne  shall  totter  and  the  strong 

shall  fall, 

At  the  mention  of  love  and  its  banefullest 
bliss. 

"O  life  that  is  lost  in  bewildering  love- 
But  a  stranger  is  sacred!"  She  lifted  a 

hand 
And  she  laid  it  as  soft  as  the  breast  of  a 

dove 
On  the  minstrel's  mouth.     It  was  more 

than  the  wand 
Of  the  tamer  of  serpents,  for  she  did  no 

more 
Than  to  bid  with  her  eyes  and  to  beck 

with  her  hand, 
And  the  song  drew  away  to  the  waves  of 

the  shore; 
Took  wings,  as  it  were,  to  the  verge  of  the 

land. 

But  her  heart  was  oppress'd.  With  peni 
tent  head 

She  turned  to  her  troop,  and  retiring,  she 
said: 

"  Alas!  and  alas!  shall  it  come  to  pass 

That  the  panther  shall  die  from  a  blade  of 
grass  ? 

That  the  tiger  shall  yield  at  the  bent- 
horn's  blast  ? 


That  we,  who  have  conquer'd  a  world 

and  all 
Of  men  and  of  beasts  in  the  world  must 

fall 
Ourselves  at  the  mention  of  love  at  last  ?" 

The  tall  Queen  turu'd  with  her  troop; 
She  led  minstrel  and    all    to    the    in 
nermost  part 
Of    the  palm-crowned  Isle,   where  great 

trees  group 
In   armies,  to  battle   when   black-storms 

start, 
And  made  a  retreat  from  the  sun  by  the 

trees 
That  are  topp'd  like  tents,   where  the 

fire-flies 

Are  a  light  to  the  feet,  and  a  fair  lake  lies, 
As  cool  as  the  coral-set  centers  of  seas. 

The  palm-trees  lorded  the  copse  like  kings, 
Their   tall   tops    tossing    the    indolent 

clouds 
That  folded  the  Isle  in  the  dawn,  like 

shrouds, 

Then   fled  from  the   sun   like   to   living 
things. 

The  cockatoo  swung  in  the  vines  below, 
And  muttering  hung  on  a  golden  thread, 

Or  moved  on  the  moss'd  bough  to  and  fro, 
In  plumes  of  gold  and  array 'd  in  red. 

The  lake  lay  hidden  away  from  the  light, 
As  asleep  in  the  Isle  from  the  tropical 

noon, 
And  narrow  and  bent  like  a  new-born 

moon, 

And  fair  as  a  moon  in   the  noon  of  the 
night. 

'Twas  shadow'd  by  forests,  and  fringed  by 

ferns, 

And  fretted  anon  by  red  fishes  that  leapt 
At  indolent  flies  that  slept  or  kept 

Their  drowsy  tones  on  the  tide  by  turns. 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


97 


And  here  in  the  dawn  when  the  Day  was 

strong 

And  newly  aroused  from  leafy  repose, 
With  dews  on  his  feet  and  tints  of  the 

rose 
In  his  great  flush'd  face  was  a  sense  of 

song 

That  the  tame  old  world  has  nor  known 
nor  heard. 

The  soul  was  filled  with  the  soft  per 
fumes, 

The  eloquent  wings  of  the  humming  bird 
Beguiled  the  heart,  they  purpled  the  air* 
And  allured  the  eye,  as  so  everywhere 
On  the  rim  of  the  wave  or  across  it  in 

swings, 
They  swept  or  they  sank  in  a  sea  of 

blooms, 
And  wove  and  wound  in  a  song  of  wings. 

A  bird  in  scarlet  and  gold,  made  mad 
With    sweet    delights,    through   the 

branches  slid 
And  kiss'd  the  lake  on  a  drowsy  lid 

Till  the  ripples  ran  and  the  face  was  glad; 

Was  glad  and  lovely  as  lights  that  sweep 
The  face  of  heaven  when  the  stars  are 

forth 
In  autumn  time  through  the  sapphire 

north, 
Or  the  face  of  a  child  when  it  smiles  in 


And  here  came  the  Queen,  in  the  tropical 

noon, 
When  the  wars  and  the  world  and  all 

were  asleep, 
And  nothing  look'd  forth  to  betray  or  to 

peep 
Through  the  glories  of  jungle  in  garments 

of  June, 
To  bathe  with  her  court  in  the  waters 

that  bent 

In  the   beautiful  lake  through   tasseling 
trees, 


And  the  tangle  of  blooms  in  a  burden  of 

bees, 
As  bold  and  as  sharp  as  a  bow  unspent. 

And  strangely  still,   and  more   strangely 

sweet, 
Was  the  lake  that  lay  in  its  cradle  of 

fern, 
As  still  as  a  moon  with  her  horns  that 

turn 

In  the  night,  like  lamps  to  white  delicate 
feet. 

They  came  and  they  stood  by  the  brink  of 

the  tide, 
They  hung  their  shields  on  the  boughs 

of  the  trees, 

They  lean'd  their  lances  against  the  side, 
Unloosed  their  sandals,  and  busy  as  bees 
Ungatherd  their  robes  in  the  rustle  of 

leaves 

That  wound  them  as  close  as  the  wine-vine 
weaves. 

The   minstrel   then  falter'd,   and    further 
aside 

Thau  ever  before  he  averted  his  head; 
He  pick'd  up  a  pebble  and  fretted  the  tide 

Afar,  with  a  countenance  flushed  and  red. 


He  feigu'd  him  ill,  he  wander'd  away, 

He  sat  him  down  by  the  waters  alone, 
And  pray'd  for  pardon,  as  a  knight  should 

pray, 
And  rued  an  error  not  all  his  own. 

The  Amazons  press'd  to  the  girdle  of  reeds, 
Two  and  by  two  they  advanced  to  the 

tide, 
They  challenged  each  other,  they  laughed 

in  their  pride. 

And  banter'd,   and  vaunted   of    valorous 
deeds. 


They  push'd  and  they  parted  the  curtains 

of  green, 
All  timid  at  first;  then  looked  in  the  wave 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


And  laugh'd;   retreated,  then  came  up 

brave 

To  the  brink  of  the  water,  led  on  by  their 
Queen. 

Again  they  retreated,  again  advanced, 
Then  parted  the  boughs  in  a  proud  dis 
dain, 
Then  bent  their  heads  to  the  waters,  and 

glanced 

Below,  then  blush'd,  and  then  laughed 
again. 

A  bird  awaken'd;  then  all  dismayed 

With  a  womanly  sense  of   a  beautiful 

shame 

That  strife  and  changes  had  left  the  same, 
They  shrank  to  the  leaves  and  the  somber 
shade. 

At  last,  press 'd  forward  a  beautiful  pair 
And  leapt  to  the  wave,  and  laughing  they 

blushed 
As  rich  as  their  wines;  when  the  waters 

rush'd 

To  the  dimpled  limbs,  and  Laugh'd  in  their 
hair. 

The  fair  troop  follow'd  with   shouts  and 

cheers, 
They  cleft  the  wave,  and  the  friendly 

ferns 
Came  down  in  curtains  and  curves  by 

turns, 
And  a  brave  palm  lifted  a  thousand  spears. 

From  under  the  ferns  and  away  from  the 

land, 

And  out  in  the  wave  until  lost  below, 
There  lay,  as  white  as  a  bank  of  snow, 

A  long  and  beautiful  border  of  sand. 

Here  clothed  alone  in  their  clouds  of  hair 
And  curtain'd  about  by  the  palm  and  fern, 

And  made  as  their  maker  had  made  them, 

fair, 
And  splendid  of  natural  curve  and  turn; 


Untrammel'd  by  art  and  untroubled  by  man 
They  tested  their  strength,  or  tried 
their  speed: 

And  here  they  wrestled,  and  there  they  ran, 
As  supple  and  lithe  as  the  watery  reed. 

The  great  trees  shadow'd  the  bow-tipp'd 

tide, 

And  nodded  their  plumes  from  the  oppo 
site  side, 

As  if  to  whisper,  Take  care!  take  care! 
But  the  meddlesome  sunshine  here  and 

there 
Kept   pointing  a  finger  right   under   the 

trees, — 
Kept  shifting  the  branches  and  wagging 

a  hand 
At  the  round  brown  limbs  on  the  border 

of  sand, 

And   seem'd  to   whisper,    Fie!    what   are 
these  ? 

The  gold-barr'd  butterflies  to  and  fro 
And  over  the  waterside  wander'd  and 

wove 
As  heedless  and  idle  as  clouds  that  rove 

And  drift  by  the  peaks  of  perpetual  snow . 

A  monkey  swung  out  from  a  bough  in  the 

skies, 
White- whisker'd  and  ancient,  and  wisest 

of  all 
Of  his  populous   race,  when  he  heard 

them  call 

And  he  watch'd  them  long,  with  his  head 
sidewise. 

He  wondered  much  and  he  watched  them 

all 

From  under  his  brows  of  amber  and  brown, 
All  patient  and  silent,  and  never  once 

stirr'd 
Till  he  saw  two  wrestle,  and  wrestling 

fall; 
Then  he  arched  his  brows  and  he  hasten'd 

him  down 
To  his  army  below  and  said  never  a  word. 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 


99 


PART  IV. 

There  is  many  a  love  in  the  land,  my  lovet 

But  never  a  love  like  this  is; 
Then  kill  me  dead  with  your  lovet  my  love, 

And  cover  me  up  with  kisses. 

Yea,  kill  me  dead  and  cover  me  deep 

Where  never  a  soul  discovers; 
Deep  in  your  heart  to  sleep,  to  sleep, 

In  the  darlingest  tomb  of  lovers. 


The  wanderer  took   him   apart  from  the 

place; 
Look'd  up  in  the  boughs  at   the  gold 

birds  there, 
He  envied  the  humming-birds  fretting 

the  air, 

And  frowned  at  the  butterflies  fanning  his 
face. 

He  sat  him  down  in  a  crook  of  the  wave 
And  away  from  the  Amazons,  under  the 

skies 
Where  great  trees  curved  to  a  leaf-lined 

cave, 

And  he  lifted  his  hands  and  he  shaded 
his  eyes : 


Aud  he  held  his  head  to  the  north  when 

they  came 
To  run  on  the  reaches  of  sand  from  the 

south, 
And  he  pull'd  at  his  chin,  and  he  pursed 

his  mouth, 

And  he  shut   his  eyes,   with  a   sense  of 
shame. 


He  reach'd  and  he  shaped  a  bamboo  reed 

From  the  brink  below,  and  began  to  blow 
As  if  to  himself;  as  the  sea  sometimes 


Does  soothe  and  soothe  in  a  low,  sweet 

song, 
When  his  rage  is  spent,  and  the  beach 

swells  strong 
With  sweet  repetitions  of  alliterate  rhymes. 

The  echoes  blew  back  from  the  indolent 

laud; 

Silent  and  still  sat  the  tropical  bird, 
And  only  the  sound  of   the  reed  was 

heard, 

As  the  Amazons  ceased  from  their  sports 
on  the  sand. 


They  rose  from  the  wave,  and  inclining 
the  head, 

They  listened  intent,  with  the  delicate 
tip 

Of  the  finger  touch'd  to  the  pouting  lip, 
Till  the  brown  Queen  tum'd  in  the  tide, 
and  led 

Through  the  opaline  lake,  and  under 
the  shade, 

To  the  shore  where  the  chivalrous  sing 
er  played. 


He  bended  his  head  and  he  shaded  his  eyes 
As   well  as   he  might   with  his  lifted 
fingers, 


IOO 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


And  ceased  to  sing.    But  in  mute  surprise 
He  saw  them  linger  as   a    child    that 

lingers 
Allured  by  a  song  that  has  ceased  in  the 

street, 

And  looks  bewilder'd  about  from  its  play, 
For  the  last  loved  notes  that  fell  at  its 
feet. 

How  the  singer  was  vexed;  he  averted  his 

head; 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  looked  far  and  wide 
For  a  brief   little  time;  but  they  bathed 

at  his  side 
In  spite  of  his  will,  or  of  prayers  well  said. 

He  press'd  four  fingers  against  each  lid, 
Till  the  light  was  gone;  yet  for  all  that  he 

did 

It  seem'd  that  the  lithe  forms  lay  and  beat 
Afloat  in  his  face  and  full  under  his  feet. 

He  seem'd  to  behold  the  billowy  breasts, 
And  the  rounded  limbs  in  the  rest  or  un 
rests — 

To  see  them  swim  as  the  mermaid  swims, 
With  the  drifting,  dimpled  delicate  limbs, 
Folded  or  hidden  or  reach'd  or  caress'd. 

It  seems  to  me  there  is  more  that  sees 
Than  the  eyes  in  man;  you  may  close 

your  eyes, 
You  may  turn  your  back,  and  may  still 

be  wise 

In  sacred  and  marvelous  mysteries. 
He  saw  as  one  sees  the  sun  of  a  noon 
In  the  sun-kiss'd  south,  when  the  eyes 

are  closed — 

He  saw  as  one  sees  the  bars  of  a  moon 
That  fall  through  the  boughs  of  the  tropi 
cal  trees, 

When  he  lies  at  length,  and  is  all  com 
posed, 

And  asleep  in  his  hammock  by  the  sun- 
down  seas. 


He  heard  the  waters  beat,  bubble  and  fret; 
He  lifted  his  eyes,  yet  forever  they  lay 
Afloat  in  the  tide;  and  he  turn'd  him  away 

And  resolved  to  fly  and  for  aye  to  forget. 

He  rose  up   strong,  and   he  cross'd  him 

twice, 
He  nerved  his   heart  and   he  lifted  his 

head, 

He  crush'd  the  treacherous  reed  in  a  trice, 
With  an  angry  foot,  and  he  turn'd  and 

fled. 

Yet  flying,  he  hurriedly  turn'd  his  head 
With  an  eager  glance,    with  meddlesome 

eyes, 

As  a  woman  will  turn;  and  he  saw  arise 
The  beautiful   Queen  from  the   silvery 
bed. 

She  toss'd  back  her  hair,  and  she  turu'd 

her  eyes 
With  all  of  their  splendor  to  his  as  he 

fled; 

Ay,  all  their  glory,  and  a  strange  surprise, 
And  a  sad  reproach,  and  a  world  unsaid. 

Then  she  struck  their  shields,  they  rose  in 

array, 
As  roused  from  a  trance,  and  hurriedly 

came 
From    out    of    the    wave.     He    wander'd 

away, 

Still    fretting    his   sensitive   soul  with 
blame. 

Alone  he  sat  in  the  shadows  at  noon, 
Alone  he  sat  by  the  waters  at  night; 
Alone  he  sang,  as  a  woman  might, 

With  pale,  kind  face  to  the  pale,  cold  moon. 

He  would  here  advance,  and  would  there 

retreat, 

As  a  petulant  child  that  has  lost  its  way 
In  the  redolent  walks  of  a  sultry  day, 

And  wanders  around  with  irresolute  feet. 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


101 


He  made  him  a  harp  of  mahogany  wood, 
He   strung   it  well  with  the   sounding 

strings 
Of  a  strong  bird's  thews,  and  from  ostrich 

wings, 

And  play'd  and  sang  in  a  sad,  sweet  rune. 
He  hang'd  his  harp  in  the  vines,   and 

stood 

By  the  tide  at  night,  in  the  palms  at  noon, 
And  lone   as   a   ghost   in   the   shadowy 
wood. 

Then  two  grew  sad,  and  alone  sat  she 
By  the  great,   strong  stream,   and   she 

bow'd  her  head, 

Then  lifted  her  face  to  the  tide,  and  said, 
"O,  pure  as  a  tear  and  as  strong  as  a  sea, 

Yet  tender  to  me  as  the  touch  of  a  dove, 
I  had  rather  sit  sad  and  alone  by  thee, 
Than  to  go  and  be  glad,  with  a  legion  in 
love." 

She  sat  one  time  at  the  wanderer's  side 
As  the  kingly  water  went  wandering  by; 
And  the  two  once  look'd,  and  they  knew 

not  why, 

Full  sad   in  each   other's  eyes,  and  they 
sigh'd. 

She  courted  the  solitude  under  the  rim 
Of  the  trees  that  reach'd  to  the  resolute 

stream, 
And   gazed  in   the  waters  as   one  in  a 

dream, 

Till   her   soul  grew  heavy  and   her   eyes 
grew  dim. 

She  bow'd  her  head  with  a  beautiful  grief 
That   grew  from   her  pity;   she    forgot 

her  arms, 
And    she  made   neglect    of    the    battle 

alarms 
That  threaten'd    the  land;    the  banana's 

leaf 
Made  shelter;  he  lifted  his  harp  again, 


She  sat,  she  listen'd  intent  and  long, 
Forgetting  her   care  and   forgetting    her 

pain — 
Made  sad  for  the  singer,  made  glad  for 

his  song. 

And   the  women  waxed  cold;    the  white 

moons  waned, 
And  the  brown  Queen  marshall'd  them 

never  once  more, 
With   sword  and   with   shield,    in   the 

palms  by  the  shore ; 
But  they  sat  them   down   to   repose,  or 

remain'd 
Apart  and   scatter'd  in  the   tropic-leaf'd 

trees, 
As  sadden'd  by  song,  or  for   loves  de- 

lay'd; 
Or  away  in  the   Isle   in   couples   they 

stray'd, 
Not  at  all  content  in  their  Isles  of  peace. 

They  wander'd   away  to   the  lakes  once 

more, 
Or  walk'd  in  the  moon,  or  they  sigh'd, 

or  slept, 
Or   they    sat   in   pairs   by    the    shadowy 

shore, 
And  silent  song  with  the  waters  kept. 

There  was  one  who  stood  by  the  waters 

one  eve, 
With  the  stars  on  her  hair,  and  the  bars 

of  the  moon 
Broken  up  at  her  feet  by  the  bountiful 

boon 

Of  extending  old  trees,  who  did  question 
ing  grieve; 

"  The  birds  they  go  over  us  two  and  by 

two; 
The   mono   is  mated;   his  bride  in  the 

boughs 
Sits  nursing  his  babe,  and  his  passionate 

vows 


IO2 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


Of  love,  you  may  hear  them  the  whole  day 
through. 

"The    lizard,    the    cayman,    the    white- 

tooth'd  boar, 
The  serpents  that  glide  in  the  sword- 

leaf'd  grass, 
The  beasts  that  abide  or  the  birds  that 

pass, 

They  are  glad  in  their  loves  as  the  green- 
leaf  d  shore. 

"  There  is  nothing  that  is  that  can  yield 

one  bliss 
Like  an  innocent  love;  the  leaves  have 

tongue 
And  the  tides  talk  low  in  the  reeds,  and 

the  young 

And  the  quick  buds  open  their  lips  but 
for  this. 

"  In  the  steep  and  the  starry  silences, 
On   the   stormy  levels  of   the  limitless 


Or  here  in  the  deeps  of  the  dark-brow'd 

trees, 

There    is   nothing   so   much   as   a   brave 
man's  kiss. 

"There    is    nothing    so    strong,    in    the 

stream,  on  the  land, 
In  the  valley  of  palms,  on  the  pinnacled 

snow, 
In  the  clouds  of  the  gods,  on  the  grasses 

below, 

As  the  silk-soft  touch  of  a  baby's  brown 
hand. 

"It  were  better  to  sit  and  to  spin  on  a 

stone 
The  whole  year  through  with  a  babe  at 

the  knee, 

With  its  brown  hands  reaching  caress 
ingly, 
Than  to  sit  in  a  girdle  of  gold  and  alone. 


"It  were  better  indeed  to  be  mothers  of 

men, 
And   to   murmur   not  much;   there  are 

clouds  in  the  sun. 
Can  a  woman  undo  what  the  gods  have 

done? 

Nay,  the  things   must  be  as  the  things 
have  been." 

They  wander'd  well  forth,  some  here  and 

some  there, 

Unsatisfied  some  and  irresolute  all. 
The  sun  was  the  same,  the  moonlight 

did  fall 
Rich-barr'd  and  refulgent;  the  stars  were 

as  fair 
As  ever  were  stars;  the  fruitful   clouds 

cross 'd 
And  the  harvest  fail'd  not;  yet  the  fair 

Isles  grew 
As  a  prison  to  all,  and  they  search  d  on 

through 

The  magnificent  shades  as  for  things  that 
were  lost. 

The  minstrel,  more  pensive,  went  deep  in 

the  wood, 
And  oft-time  delay'd  him  the  whole  day 

through, 
As  charm'd  by  the  deeps,  or  the  sad 

heart  drew 
Some  solaces  sweet  from  the  solitude. 

The  singer  forsook  them  at  last,  and  the 

Queen 
Came  seldom  then  forth  from  the  fierce 

deep  wood, 

And  her  warriors,  dark-brow'd  and  be 
wildering  stood 
In  bands  by  the  wave  in  the  complicate 

screen 
Of  overbent  boughs.    They  would  lean  on 

their  spears 

And  would  sometimes  talk,  low-voiced 
and  by  twos, 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS, 


103 


As  allured  by  longings  they  could  not 

refuse, 

And  would  sidewise  look,  as  beset  by  their 
fears. 

Once,  wearied  and  sad,  by  the  shadowy 

trees 
In  the  flush  of  the  sun  they  sank  to 

their  rests, 
The   dark    hair  veiling    the    beautiful 

breasts 
That  arose  in  billows,  as  mists  veil  seas. 

Then  away  to  the   dream-world    one  by 

one; 
The  great  red   sun  in  his  purple  was 

roll'd, 
And  red-wing'd  birds  and  the  birds  of 

gold 

Were  above  in  the  trees  like  the  beams  of 
the  sun. 

Then  the  sun  came  down,  on  his  ladders 

of  gold 
Built  up  of   his  beams,  and  the  souls 

arose 

And  ascended  on  these,  and  the  fair  re 
pose 

Of  the  negligent  forms  was  a  feast  to  be 
hold. 

The  round  brown  limbs  they  were  reach'd 

or  drawn, 
The  grass  made  dark  with  the  fervour  of 

hair; 

And  here  were  the  rose-red  lips  and  there 
A   flush'd  breast  rose  like  a   sun    at    a 
dawn. 

Then  black-wing'd  birds  flew  over  in  pair, 
Listless  and  slow,  as  they  call'd  of  the 

seas 
And  sounds   came  down  through    the 

tangle  of  trees 

As   lost,  and  nestled,    and   hid  in   their 
hair. 


They  started  disturb'd,  they  sprang  as  at 

war 
To  lance  and  to  shield;  but  the  dolorous 

sound 
Was  gone  from  the  wood;   they  gazed 

around 

And  saw  but  the  birds,  black-wing'd  and 
afar. 

They  gazed  at  each   other,  then   turn'd 

them  unheard, 
Slow  trailing  their  lances,  in  long  single 

line; 
They  moved  through  the  forest,  all  dark 

as  the  sign 

Of  death  that  fell  down  from  the  ominous 
bird- 


Then  the  great  sun  died,  and  a  rose-red 

bloom 
Grew  over  his  grave  in   a    border    of 

gold, 
And  a  cloud  with  a  silver-white  rim  was 

roll'd 

Like  a  cold  gray  stone  at  the  door  of   his 
tomb. 

Strange  voices   were   heard,   sad   visions 

were  seen, 
By  sentries,   betimes,  on   the  opposite 

shore, 
Where  broad  boughs  bended  their  curtains 

of  green 

Far  over  the  wave  with  their  tropical 
store. 

A  sentry  bent  low  on  her  palms  and  she 

peer'd 
Suspiciously  through;  and,  heavens!  a 

man, 
Low-brow'd  and  wicked,  looked  backward, 

and  jeer'd 

And  taunted  right  full  in  her  face  as  he 
ran: 


104 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


A   low  crooked    man,    with   eyes   like   a 

bird,— 
As  rouiid  and  as  cunning, — who  came  from 

the  land 
Of  lakes,  where  the  clouds  lie  low  and 

at  hand, 
And  the  songs  of  the  bent  black  swans  are 

heard; 
Where  men  are  most  cunning  and   cruel 

withal, 
And  are  famous  as  spies,  and  are  supple 

and  fleet, 
And  are  webb'd  like  the  water-fowl  under 

the  feet, 
And  they  swim  like  the  swans,  and  like 

pelican's  call. 

And  again,  on  a  night  when  the  moon  she 

was  not, 
A  sentry  saw  stealing,  as  still  as  a  dream, 


A  sudden  canoe  down  the  mid  of  the 

stream, 

Like  the  dark  boat  of  death,  and  as  still 
as  a  thought. 

And  lo!  as  it  pass'd,  from  the  prow  there 

arose 
A   dreadful   and    gibbering,    hairy    old 

man, 

Loud  laughing  as  only  a  maniac  can, 
And  shaking  a  lance  at  the  land  of   his 

foes; 
Then   sudden    it   vanish'd,  as  still  as  it 

came, 
Far    down    through    the    walls  of   the 

shadowy  wood, 
And  the   great   moon  rose  like   a  forest 

aflame, 

All  threat'ning,    sullen,    and    red    like 
blood. 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


105 


PART  V. 

Well,  we  have  threaded  through  and  through, 
The  gloaming  forests,  Fairy  Isles, 
Afloat  in  sun  and  summer  smiles, 
As  fallen  stars  in  fields  of  blue ; 
Some  futile  wars  with  subtile  Love 
That  mortal  never  vanquished  yet, 
Some  symphonies  by  angels  set 
In  wave  below,  in  bough  above. 
Were  yours  and  mine;  but  here  adieu. 

And  if  it  come  to  pass  some  days 
That  you  grow  weary,  sad,  and  you 
Lift  up  deep  eyes  from   dusty  ways 
Of  mart  and  moneys  to  the  blue 
And  pure  cold  waters,  isle  and  vine, 
And  bathe  you  there,  and  then  arise 
Refreshed  by  one  fresh  thought  of  mine, 
1  rest  content:  I  kiss  your  eyes, 
I  kiss  your  hair,  in  my  delight: 
I  kiss  my  hand,  and  say,  "Good-night." 


I  tell  you  that  love  is  the  bitterest  sweet 
That  ever  laid  hold   on  the  heart  of  a 

man; 
A  chain  to  the  soul,  and  to  cheer  as  a 

ban, 

And  a  bane  to  the  brain  and  a  snare  to  the 
feet. 

Aye!  who  shall  ascend  on  the  hollow  white 

wings 

Of  love  but  to  fall;   to  fall  and  to  learn, 
Like  a  moth,  or  a  man,  that  the  lights 

lure  to  burn, 

That  the  roses  have  thorns  and  the  honey 
bee  stings  ? 

I  say  to  you   surely  that   grief  shall  be 
fall; 
I  lift  you  my  finger,  I  caution  you  true, 


And  yet   you  go  forward,  laugh  gaily, 

and  you 

Must  learn  for  yourself,  then  lament  for 
us  all. 

You  had  better  be  drown'd  than  to  love 

and  to  dream. 
It  were  better  to  sit  on  a  moss-grown 

stone, 

And  away  from  the  sun,  forever  alone, 
Slow  pitching  white  pebbles  at  trout  in  a 
stream. 

Alas  for  a  heart  that  must  live  forlorn! 
If  you  live  you  must  love;  if  you  love, 

regret — 
It  were  better,  perhaps,   had  you   never 

been  born, 
Or  better,  at  least,  you  could  well  forget. 


io6 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


The  clouds  are  above  us  and  snowy  and 

cold, 
And  what  is  beyond  but  the  steel  gray 

sky, 
And  the  still  far  stars  that  twinkle  and 

lie 

Like  the  eyes  of  a  love   or  delusions    of 
gold! 


Ah!  who  would  ascend ?  The  clouds  are 
above. 

Aye!  all  things  perish;  to  rise  is  to  fall. 
And  alack  for  lovers,  and  alas  for  love, 

And  alas  that  we  ever  were  born  at  all. 


The  minstrel  now  stood  by  the  border  of 

wood, 

But  now  not  alone;  with  a  resolute  heart 
He  reach'd  his  hand,  like  to  one  made 

strong, 
Forgot   his    silence  and    resumed    his 

song, 
And   aroused  his  soul,  and  assumed  his 

part 
With  a  passionate  will, in  the  palms  where 

he  stood. 


"  She  is  sweet  as  the  breath  of  the  Castile 

rose, 
She  is  warm  to  the  heart  as  a  world  of 

wine, 
And  as  rich  to  behold  as  the  rose    that 

grows 

With  its  red  heart  bent  to  the  tide  of  the 
Khine. 


"  I  shall  sip  her  lips  as  the  brown  bees  sup 

From  the  great  gold  heart  of  the  buttercup  ! 

I  shall  live  and  Io7e  !     I  shall  have  my 

day, 

And  die  in  my  time,  and  who  shall  gain 
say  ? 

'  What  boots  mo  the  battles  that  I  have 
have  fought 


With  self  for  honor  ?  My  brave  resolves  ? 
And  who  takes  note  ?     The  soul  dissolves 
In  a  sea  of  love,  and  the  wars  are  forgot. 


"The   march  of  men,    and    the    drift    of 

ships, 

The  dreams  of  fame,  and  desires  for  gold, 
Shall  go  for  aye  as  a  tale  that  is  told, 
Nor  divide   for  a  day  my  lips    from  her 
lips. 

"And  a  knight  shall  rest,  and  none  shall 

say  nay, 
In  a  green  Isle  wash:d  by  an  arm  of  the 

seas, 
And  walled  from  the  world  by  the  white 

Andes: 

The   years  are   of  age   and   can  go  their 
way." 

A  sentinel  stood  on  the  farthermost  land, 
And  struck  her  shield,  and  her  sword  in 

hand, 
She  cried,    "  He  comes  with  his  silver 

spears, 

With  flint-tipp'd  arrows  and  bended  bows, 
To  take  our  blood  though  we  give  him 

tears, 
And  to  flood  our  Isle  in  a  world  of  woes! 


"He   comes,   O  Queen  of  the  sun-kiss'd 

Isle, 
He  comes  as  a  wind  comes,  blown  from 

the  seas, 
In  a  cloud  of    canoes,  on  the  curling 

breeze, 

With  his  shields  of  tortoise  and  of  croco 
dile!" 


Sweeter  than  swans'  area  maiden's  graces  ! 

Sweeter  than  fruits  are  the  kisses  of 
morn  ! 

Sweeter  than  babies'  is  a  love  new-born, 
But  sweeter  than  all  are  a  love's  embraces. 


ISLES    OF   THE    AMAZONS. 


IO7 


The    Queen  was   at  peace.     Her  terms  of 
surrender 

To  love,  who  knows  ?  and  who  can  defend 
her? 

She  slept  at  peace,  and  the  sentry's  warn 
ing 
Could  scarce  awaken  the  love-conquer'd 

Queen; 
She  slept  at  peace  in  the  opaline 

Hush  and  blush  of  that  tropical  morning; 

And  bound  about  by  the  twining  glory, 
Vine  and  trellis  in  the  vernal  morn, 
As  still  and  sweet  as  a  babe  new-born, 

The  brown  Queen  dream'd  of  the  old  new 
story. 

But  hark!  her  sentry's  passionate  words, 
The  sound  of  shields,  and  the  clash  of 

swords ! 
And    slow    she    came,    her   head  on  her 

breast, 
And  her  two  hands  held  as  to  plead  for 

rest. 

Where,  0  where,  were  the  Juno  graces  ? 

Where,  O  where  was  the  glance  of  Jove, 
As  the  Queen  came  forth  from  the  sacred 
places, 

Hidden  away  in  the  heart  of  the  grove  ? 

They  rallied  around  as  of  old, — they  be 
sought  her, 

With  swords  to  the  sun  and  the  sound 
ing  shield, 

To  lead  them  again  to  the  glorious  field, 
So   sacred   to   Freedom;  and,    breathless, 

they  brought  her 
Her  buckler  and  sword,  and  her  armor  all 

bright 

With  a  thousand  gems  eujewell'd  in  gold. 
She  lifted  her  head  with  the  look  of  old 
An  instant  only;  with  all  of  her  might 
She   sought   to  be  strong  and    majestic 
again : 


She  bared  them  her  arms  and  her  ample 

brown  breast; 
They  lifted  her  armor,  they  strove  to 

invest 
Her  form  in  armor,   but  they   strove  in 

vain. 
It  could  close  no  more,  but  it  clang'd  on 

the  ground, 
Like  the  fall  of  a  knight,  with  an  ominous 

sound, 
And  she  shook  her   hair  and   she   cried 

"Alas! 

That  love  should  come  and  liberty  pass;" 
And  she  cried,  ' '  Alas !  to  be  cursed and 

bless'd 
For  the  nights  of  love  and  noons  of  rest." 

Her    warriors    wonder'd;    they    wander'd 

apart, 
And  trail'd  their  swords,  and  subdued 

their  eyes 

To  earth  in  sorrow  and  in  hush'd  sur 
prise, 

And  forgot   themselves   in  their  pity  of 
heart. 

"O  Isles  of  the  sun,"  sang  the  blue-eyed 

youth, 
"O  Edens  new-made  and  let  down  from 

above! 
Be  sacred   to  peace   and  to  passionate 

love, 

Made  happy  in  peace  and  made  holy  with 
truth." 

The  fair  Isle  fill'd  with  the  fierce  invader; 
They  form'd  on  the   strand,  they  lifted 

their  spears, 
Where  never  was  man  for  years  and  for 

years, 
And  moved  on  the  Queen.    She  lifted  and 

laid  her 
Finger-tip  to  her  lips.     For  O  sweet 

Was  the  song  of  love  as  the  love  new 
born, 


io8 


ISLES    OF    THE    AMAZONS. 


That   the  minstrel  blew  in   the  virgin 

morn, 

Away  where  the  trees  and  the  soft  sands 
meet. 


The  strong  men  lean'd  and  their  shields 

let  fall, 

And  slowly  they  came  with  their  trail 
ing  spears, 
And  heads  bow'd  down  as  if  bent  with 

years, 
And  an  air  of  gentleness  over  them  all. 

The  men  grew  glad  as  the  song  ascended, 
They  lean'd  their    lances    against   the 
palms, 


They  reach'd  their  arms  as  to  reach  for 

alms, 

And  the  Amazons  came— and  their  reign 
was  ended. 


The  tawny  old  crone  here  lays  her  stone 

On  the  leaning  grass  and  reaches  a  hand; 

The  day  like  a  beautiful  dream  has  flown, 

The  curtains  of  night  come  down  on  the 

land, 

And  I  dip  to  the  oars;  but  ere  I  go, 
I  tip  her  an  extra  bright  pesos  or  so, 
And  I  smile  my  thanks,  for  I  think  them 

due: 
But,  reader,  fair  reader,  now  what  think 

you? 


I  do  not  like  this,  although  1  have  cut  it  up  and  cut  it  down,  and  worked  it  over  and  over  more  than  anything 
else.  I  had  seen  this  vast  and  indescribable  country,  but  not  absorbed  it;  and  that,  most  likely,  is  the  reason 
it  seems  artificial  and  foolish,  with  knights  and  other  things  that  I  know  nothing  about.  The  only  thing  that  I 
like  in  it  is  the  water.  I  can  handle  water,  and  water  is  water  the  world  'over.  Eut  had  it  not  been  for  the 
water  and  some  of  the  wild  tangles  and  jungles  the  whole  thing  would,  ere  this,  have  gone  where  the  biggest 
half  went  long  since.  It  was  written  in  San  Francisco,  and  was  published  at  the  same  time  in  the  Overland 
there  and  the  Gentleman' i  Magazine  in  London.  It  was  written  at  the  instance  of  the  Emperor,  who  translated 
it  and  to  the  last  was  brave  and  courtly  enough  to  insist  that  it  was  good  work.  I  had  hoped  to  induce  people  to 
pour  out  of  crowded  London  and  better  their  fortunes  there;  for  there  is  great  wealth  far,  far  up  the  Amazon. 
Aye,  what  exultant  praise  swelled  my  heart  one  happy  day  in  Rome  when  Partridge,  our  minister  to  Brazil,  gave 
me  that  message  of  thanks  froui  the  good  Emperor,  with  a  request  to  make  his  home  my  own  while  he  lived. 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER. 


109 


AN  INDIAN  SUMMER. 


The  world  it  is  wide;  men  go  their  ways 
But  love  he  is  wise,  and  of  all  the  hours, 
And  of  all  the  beautiful  sun-born  days, 
He  sips  their  siveets  as  the  bee  sips  flowers. 


The  sunlight  lay  in  gather'd  sheaves 
Aloiig  the  ground,  the  golden  leaves 
Possess'd  the  land  and  lay  in  bars 
Above  the  lifted  lawn  of  green 
Beneath  the  feet,  or  fell,  as  stars 
Fall,  slantwise,  shimmering  and  still 
Upon  the  plain,  upon  the  hill, 
And  heaving  hill  and  plain  between. 

Some  steeds  in  panoply  were  seen, 
Strong,  martial  trained,  with  manes  in  air, 
And  tassell'd  reins  and  mountings  rare; 
Some  silent  people  here  and  there, 
That  gather'd  leaves  with  listless  will, 
Or  moved  adown  the  dappled  green, 
Or  look'd  awa    with  idle  gaze 
Against  the  gold  and  purple  haze. 
You  might  have  heard  red  leaflets  fall, 
The  pheasant  on  the  farther  hill, 
A  single,  lonely,  locust  trill, 
Or  sliding,  sable  cricket  call 
From  out  the  grass,  but  that  was  all. 

A  wanderer  of  many  lands 
Was  I,  a  weary  Ishmaelite, 
That  knew  the  sign  of  lifted  hands; 
Had  seen  the  Crescent-mosques,  had  seen 
The  Druid  oaks  of  Aberdeen— 
Kecross'd  the  hilly  seas,  and  saw 
The  sable  pines  of  Mackinaw, 
And  lakes  that  lifted  cold  and  white. 

I  saw  the  sweet  Miami,  saw 
The  swift  Ohio  bent  and  roll'd 


Between  his  woody  walls  of  gold, 
The  Wabash  banks  of  gray  pawpaw, 
The  Mississippi's  ash;  at  morn 
Of  autumn,  when  the  oak  is  red, 
Saw  slanting  pyramids  of  corn, 
The  level  fields  of  spotted  swine, 
The  crooked  lanes  of  lowing  kine, 
And  in  the  burning  bushes  saw 
The  face  of  God,  with  bended  head. 

But  when  I  saw  her  face,  I  said, 
"Earth  has  no  fruits  so  fairly  red 
As  these  that  swing  above  my  head; 
i    No  purpled  leaf,  no  poppied  land, 
Like  this  that  lies  in  reach  of  hand." 

And,  soft,  unto  myself  I  said: 
"  O  soul,  inured  to  rue  and  rime, 
To  barren  toil  and  bitter  bread, 
To  biting  rime,  to  bitter  rue, 
Earth  is  not  Nazareth;  be  good. 
O  sacred  Indian-summer  time 
Of  scarlet  fruits,  of  fragrant  wood, 
Of  purpled  clouds,  of  curling  haze— 
O  days  of  golden  dreams,  and  days 
Of  banish'd,  vanish'd  tawny  men, 
Of  martial  songs  of  manly  deeds — 
Be  fair  to-day,  and  bear  me  true." 
We  mounted,  turn'd  the  sudden  steeds 
Toward  the  yellow  hills  and  flew. 

My  faith!  but  she  rode  fair,  and  she 
Had  scarlet  berries  in  her  hair, 
And  on  her  hands  white  starry  stones. 
The  satellites  of  many  thrones 


JIO 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER. 


Fall  down  before  her  gracious  air 
In  that  full  season.     Fair  to  see 
Are  pearly  shells,  red,  virgin  gold, 
And  yellow  fruits,  and  sun-down  seas, 
And  babes  sun-brown;  but  all  of  these, 
And  all  fair  things  of  sea  besides, 
Before  the  matchless,  manifold 
Accomplishments  of  her  who  rides 
With  autumn  summer  in  her  hair, 
And  knows  her  steed  and  holds  her  fair 
And  stately  in  her  stormy  seat, 
They  lie  like  playthings  at  her  feet. 

By  heaven!  she  was  more  than  fair, 
And  more  than  good,  and  matchless  wise, 
With  all  the  lovelight  in  her  eyes, 
And  all  the  midnight  in  her  hair. 

Through  leafy  avenues  and  lanes, 
And  lo!  we  climb'd  the  yellow  hills, 
With  russet  leaves  about  the  brows 
That  reach'd  from  over-reaching  trees. 
With  purpled  briars  to  the  knees 
Of  steeds  that  fretted  foamy  thews. 
We  turn'd  to  look  a  time  below 
Beneath  the  ancient  arch  of  boughs, 
That  bent  above  us  as  a  bow 
Of  promise,  bound  in  many  hues. 

I  reach'd  my  hand.     I  could  refuse 
All  fruits  but  this,  the  touch  of  her 
At  such  a  time.    But  lo!  she  lean'd 
With  lifted  face  and  soul,  and  leant 
As  leans  devoutest  worshipper, 
Beyond  the  branches  scarlet  screen'd 
And  look'd  above  me  and  beyond, 
So  fix'd  and  silent,  still  and  fond, 
She  seem'd  the  while  she  look'd  to'lose 
Her  very  soul  in  such  intent. 
She  look'd  on  other  things,  but  I, 
I  saw  nor  scarlet  leaf  nor  sky; 
I  look'd  on  her,  and  only  her. 

Afar  the  city  lay  in  smokes 
Of  battle,  and  the  martial  strokes 


Of  Progress  thunder'd  through  the  land 
And  struck  against  the  yellow  trees, 
And  roll'd  in  hollow  echoes  on 
Like  sounding  limits  of  the  'seas 
That  smite  the  shelly  shores  at  dawn. 

Beyond,  below,  on  either  hand 
There  reach'd  a  lake  in  belt  of  pine, 
A  very  dream;  a  distant  dawn 
Asleep  in  all  the  autumn  shine, 
Some  like  one  of  another  land 
That  I  once  laid  a  hand  upon, 
And  loved  too  well,  and  named  as  mine. 

She    sometimes    touch'd  with    dimpl'd 

hand 

The  drifting  mane  with  dreamy  air, 
She  sometimes  push'd  aback  her  hair; 
But  still  she  lean'd  and  look'd  afar, 
As  silent  as  the  statues  stand, — 
For  what  ?    For  falling  leaf  ?    For  star, 
That  runs  before  the  bride  of  death  ? . . . . 
The  elements  were  still;  a  breath 
Stirr'd  not,  the  level  western  sun 
Pour'd  in  his  arrows  every  one; 
Spill'd  all  his  wealth  of  purpled  red 
On  velvet  poplar  leaf  below, 
On  arching  chestnut  overhead 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow. 

She  sat  the  upper  hill,  and  high. 
I  spurr'd  my  black  steed  to  her  side; 
"The  bow  of  promise,  lo! "  I  cried, 
And  lifted  up  my  eyes  to  hers 
With  all  the  fervid  love  that  stirs 
The  blood  of  men  beneath  the  sun, 
And  reach'd  my  hand,  as  one  undone, 
In  suppliance  to  hers  above: 
"The  bow  of  promise!  give  me  love! 
I  reach  a  hand,  I  rise  or  fall, 
Henceforth  from  this :  put  forth  a  hand 
From  your  high  place  and  let  me  stand — 
Stand  soul  and  body,  white  and  tall! 
Why,  I  would  live  for  you,  would  die 
To-morrow,  but  to  live  to-day, 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER. 


Ill 


Give  me  but  love,  and  let  me  live 
To  die  before  you.     I  can  pray 
To  only  you,  because  I  know, 
If  you  but  give  what  I  bestow, 
That  God  has  nothing  left  to  give." 

Christ!  still  her  stately  head  was  raised, 
And  still  she  silent  sat  and  gazed 
Beyond  the  trees,  beyond  the  town, 
To  where  the  dimpled  waters  slept, 
Nor  splendid  eyes  once  bended  down 
To  eyes  that  lifted  up  and  wept. 

She  spake  not,  nor  subdued  her  head 
To  note  a  hand  or  heed  a  word; 
And  then  I  question'd  if  she  heard 
My  life-tale  on  that  leafy  hill, 
Or  any  fervid  word  I  said, 
And  spoke  with  bold,  vehement  will. 

She  moved,  and  from  her  bridle  hand 
She  slowly  drew  the  dainty  glove, 
Then  gazed  again  upon  the  land. 
The  dimpled  hand,  a  snowy  dove 
Alit,  and  moved  along  the  mane 
Of  glossy  skeins;  then,  overbold, 
It  fell  across  the  mane,  and  lay 
Before  my  eyes  a  sweet  bouquet 
Of  cluster'd  kisses,  white  as  snow. 
I  should  have  seized  it  reaching  so, 
But  something  bade  me  back, — a  ban; 
Around  the  third  fair  finger  ran 
A  shining,  hateful  hoop  of  gold. 

Ay.  then  I  turn'd,  I  look'd  away, 
I  sudden  felt  forlorn  and  chill; 
I  whistled,  like,  for  want  to  say, 
And  then  I  said,  with  bended  head, 
"Another's  ship  from  other  shores, 
With  richer  freight,  with  fairer  stores, 
Shall  come  to  her  some  day  instead; " 
Then  turn'd  about,— and  all  was  still. 

Yea,  you  had  chafed  at  this,  and  cried, 
And  laugh'd  with  bloodless  lips,  and  said 


Some  bitter  things  to  sate  your  pride, 

And  toss'd  aloft  a  lordly  head, 

And  acted  well  some  wilful  lie, 

And,  most  like,  cursed  yourself — but  I. . . 

Well,  you  be  crucified,  and  you 

Be  broken  up  with  lances  through 

The  soul,  then  you  may  turn  to  find 

Some  ladder-rounds  in  keenest  rods, 

Some  solace  in  the  bitter  rind, 

Some  favor  with  the  gods  irate — 

The  everlasting  anger  d  gods — 

And  ask  not  overmuch  of  fate. 

I  was  not  born,  was  never  bless'd, 
With  cunning  ways,  nor  wit,  nor  skill 
In  woman's  ways,  nor  words  of  love, 
Nor  fashion'd  suppliance  of  will. 
A  very  clown,  I  think,  had  guess'd 
How  out  of  place  and  plain  I  seem'd; 
I,  I,  the, idol-worshiper, 
Who  saw  nor  maple-leaves  nor  sky 
But  took  some  touch  and  hue  of  her. 

I  am  a  pagan,  heathen,  lo! 
A  savage  man,  of  savage  lands; 
Too  quick  to  love,  too  slow  to  know 
The  sign  that  tame  love  understands. 
«•<•*••• 

Some    heedless    hoofs    went  sounding 

down 

The  broken  way.   The  woods  were  brown, 
And  homely  now;  some  idle  talk 
Of  folk  and  town;  a  broken  walk; 
But  sounding  feet  made  song  no  more 
For  me  along  that  leafy  shore. 

The  sun  caught  up  his  gather'd  sheaves; 
A  squirrel  caught  a  nut  and  ran; 
A  rabbit  rustled  in  the  leaves, 
A  whirling  bat.  black-wing'd  and  tan, 
Blew  swift  between  us;  sullen  night 
Fell  down  upon  us;  mottled  kine, 
With  lifted  heads,  went  lowing  down 
The  rocky  ridge  toward  the  town, 
And  ail  the  woods  grew  dark  as  wine. 


112 


AN    INDIAN    SUMMER. 


Yea,  bless'd  Ohio's  banks  are  fair; 

A  sunny  clime  and  good  to  touch, 

For  tamer  men  of  gentler  mien, 

But  as  for  me,  another  scene. 

A  land  below  the  Alps  I  know, 

Set  well  with  grapes  and  girt  with  much 

Of  woodland  beauty;  I  shall  share 

My  rides  by  night  below  the  light 

Of  Mauna  Loa,  ride  below 

The  steep  and  Starry  Hebron  height ; 

Shall  lift  my  hands  in  many  lands, 

See  South  Sea  palm,  see  Northland  fir, 

See    white-winged    swans,    see    red-bill'd 

doves; 

See  many  lands  and  many  loves, 
But  never  more  the  face  of  her. 


And  what  her  name  or  now  the  place 
Of  her  who  makes  my  Mecca's  prayer, 
Concerns  you  not;  not  any  trace 


Of  entrance  to  my  temple's  shrine 
KemainSc     The  memory  is  mine, 
And  none  shall  pass  the  portals  there. 

I  see  the  gold  and  purple  gleam 
Of  autumn  leaves,  a  reach  of  seas, 
A  silent  rider  like  a  dream 
Moves  by,  a  mist  of  mysteries, 
And  these  are  mine,  and  only  these, 
Yet  they  be  more  in  my  esteem, 
Than  silver'd  sails  on  corall'd  seas. 

The  present!  take  it,  hold  it  thine, 
But  that  one  hour  out  from  all 
The  years  that  are,  or  yet  shall  fall, 
I  pluck  it  out,  I  name  it  mine; 
That  hour  bound  in  sunny  sheaves. 
With  tassell'd  shocks  of  golden  shine. 
That  hour  wound  in  scarlet  leaves, 
Is  mine.     I  stretch  a  hand  and  swear 
An  oath  that  breaks  into  a  prayer; 
By  heaven,  it  is  wholly  mine! 


*  I  wrote,  or  rather  lived,  this  bit  of  color  at  Cleveland,  Ohio,  giving  to  it  the  entire  autumn  of  gold.  The 
prime  purpose'  was  to  get  the  atmosphere  of  an  Ohio  Saint  Martin's  summer,  but  it  grew  to  be  a  very  serious 
matter.  The  story,  what  little  there  is  of  it,  is  literally  true.  In  fact  we  must  in  some  sort  at  least,  live  what 
wo  write  if  what  we  write  is  to  live. 


FROM    SEA    TO    SEA. 


FROM    SEA   TO   SEA. 

Lo!  here  sit  we  by  the  sun-down  seas 
And  the  White  Sierras.     The  sweet  sea-breeze 
Is  about  us  here;  and  a  sky  so  fair 
Is  bending  above,  so  cloudless,  blue, 
That  you  gaze  and  you  gaze  and  you  dream,  and  you 
See  God  and  the  portals  of  heaven  there. 


Shake  hands!  kiss  hands  in  haste  to  the 

Bea, 
Where  the  sun  comes  in,  and  mount  with 

me 
The  matchless  steed  of    the  strong  New 

World, 
As  he  champs  and  chafes  with  a  strength 

untold, — 
And  away  to  the  West,  where  the  waves 

are  curl'd, 
As  they  kiss  white  palms  to  the  capes  of 

gold! 

A  girtn  of  brass  and  a  breast  of  steel, 
A  breath  of  flame  and  a  flaming  mane, 
An  iron  hoof  and  a  steel-clad  heel, 
A  Mexican  bit  and  a  massive  chain 
Well  tried  and  wrought  in  an  iron  rein; 
And  away!  away!  with  a  shout  and  yell 
That  had  stricken  a  legion  of   old  with 

fear, 
They  had  started  the  dead  from  their  graves 

while're, 
And  startled  the  damn'd  in  hell  as  well. 

Stand  up!  stand  out!  where   the  wind 

comes  in. 
And  the  wealth  of    the  seas  pours  over 

yon, 
As   its  health  floods  up  to  the  face  like 

wine, 


And  a  breath  blows  up  from  the  Delaware 
And  the  Susquehanna.  We  feel  the  might 
Of  armies  in  us;  the  blood  leaps  through 
The  frame  with  a  fresh  and  a  keen  delight 
As  the  Alleghanies  have  kiss'd  the  hair, 
With  a  kiss  blown  far  through  the  rush 

and  din, 
By  the  chestnut  burrs  and  through  boughs 

of  pine. 

0  seas  in  a  land!  O  lakes  of  mine! 
By  the  love  I  bear  and  the  songs  I  bring 
Be  glad  with   me!   lift   your  waves   and 

sing 
A  song  in  the  reeds  that  surround  your 

isles! — 

A  song  of  joy  for  this  sun  that  smiles, 
For  this   land  I  love  and  this   age  and 

sign; 

For  the  peace  that  is  and  the  perils  pass'd; 
For  the  hope  that  is  and  the  rest  at  last! 

O  heart  of  the  world's  heart!  West!  my 

West! 
Look  up!  look  out!     There  are  fields  of 

kine, 

There  are  clover-fields  that  are  red  as  wine; 
And  a  world  of  kine  in  the  fields  take  rest, 
As  they  ruminate  in  the  shade  of  trees 
That  are  white   with  blossoms  or  brown 

with  bees. 


FROM    SEA    TO    SEA. 


There  are  emerald  seas  of  corn  and  cane; 

There  are  isles  of  oak  on  the  harvest  plain, 

Where  brown  men  bend  to  the  bending 
grain; 

There  are  temples  of  God  and  towns  new 
born, 

And  beautiful  homes  of  beautiful  brides; 

And  the  hearts  of  oak  and  the  hands  of 
horn 

Have  fashion'd  all  these  and  a  world  be 
sides... 

A  rush  of  rivers  and  a  brush  of  trees, 
A  breath  blown  far  from  the  Mexican  seas, 
And  over  the  great  heart-vein  of  earth! 
...  By  the  South-Sun-land  of  the  Chero 
kee, 

By  the  scalp-lock-lodge  of  the  tall  Pawnee, 
And  up  La  Platte.     What  a  weary  dearth 
Of  the  homes  of  men!  What  a  wild  delight 
Of  space!  Of  room!  What  a  sense  of  seas, 
Where  the  seas  are  not!     What  a  salt-like 

breeze! 

What  dust  and  taste  of  quick  alkali! 
...Then  hills!    green,  brown,  then  black 

like  night, 
All  fierce  and  defiant  against  the  sky! 

At  last!  at  last!  O  steed  new-born, 

Born  strong  of  the  will  of  the  strong  New 
World, 

We  shoot  to  the  summit,  with  the  shafts 
of  morn, 

On  the  mount  of  Thunder,  where  clouds 
are  curl'd, 

Below  in  a  splendor  of  the  sun-clad  seas. 

A  kiss  of  welcome  on  the  warm  west  breeze 

Blows  up  with  a  smell  of  the  fragrant 
pine, 

And  a  faint,  sweet  fragrance  from  the  far- 
off  seas 

Comes  in  through  the  gates  of  the  great 
South  Pass, 

And  thrills  the  soul  like  a  flow  of  wine. 

The  hare  leaps  low  in  the  storm-bent  grass, 


The  mountain  ram   from  his    cliff  looks 

back, 

The  brown  deer  hies  to  the  tamarack; 
And  afar  to  the  South  with  a  sound  of  the 

main, 
Roll  buffalo  herds  to  the  limitless  plain  .  . . 

On,  on,  o'er  the  summit;  and  onward 
again, 

And  down  like  the  sea-dove  the  billow  en 
shrouds, 

And  down  like  the  swallow  that  dips  to 
the  sea, 

We  dart  and  we  dash  and  we  quiver  and  we 

Are  blowing  to  heaven  white  billows  of 
clouds. 

Thou  "City  of  Saints!"  O  antique  men, 
And  men  of  the  Desert  as  the  men  of  old! 
Stand  up!  be  glad!  When  the  truths  are 

told, 
When   Time   has    utter'd  his  truths  and 

when 

His  hand  has  lifted  the  things  to  fame 
From  the  mass  of  things  to  be  known  no 

more, 

A  monument  set  in  the  desert  sand, 
A  pyramid  rear'd  on  an  inland  shore, 
And  their  architects  shall  have  place  and 

name. 

The  Humboldt  desert  and  the  alkaline 

land, 

And  the  seas  of  sage  and  of  arid  sand 
That   stretch  away  till  the   strain'd   eye 

carries 

The  soul  where  the  infinite  spaces  fill, 
Are  far  in  the  rear,  and  the  tierce  Sierras 
Are  under  our  feet,  and  the  hearts  beat 

high 
And  the  blood  comes  quick;  but  the  lips 

are  still 

With  awe  and  wonder,  and  all  the  will 
Is  bow'd  with  a  grandeur  that  frets  the 

sky. 


FROM    SEA    TO    SEA. 


A  flash  of   lakes  through  the  fragrant 

trees, 

A  song  of  birds  and  a  sound  of  bees 
Above  in  the  boughs  of  the  sugar-pine. 
The  pick-ax  stroke  in  the  placer  mine, 
The  boom  of    blasts  in   the    gold-ribbed 

hills, 

The  grizzly's  growl  in  the  gorge  below 
Are  dying  away,  and  the  sound  of  rills 
From  the  far-off  shimmering  crest  of  snow, 
The  laurel  green  and  the  ivied  oak, 
A  yellow  stream  and  a  cabin's  smoke, 
The  brown  bent  hills  and  the  shepherd's 

call, 

The  hills  of  vine  and  of  fruits,  and  all 
The  sweets  of  Eden  are  here,  and  we 
Look  out  and  afar  to  a  limitless  sea. 


We  have  lived  an  age  in  a  half-moon- 
wane! 
We  have  seen  a  world!    We  have  chased 

the  sun 

From  sea  to  sea;  but  the  task  is  done. 
We  here  descend  to  the  great  white  main— 
To  the  King  of  Seas,  with  its  temples  bare 
And  a  tropic  breath  on  the  brow  and  hair. 

We  are  hush'd  with  wonder,  we  stand 

apart, 

We  stand  in  silence;  the  heaving  heart 
Fills  full  of  heaven,  and  then  the  knees 
Go  down  in  worship  on  the  golden  sands. 
With  faces  seaward,  and  with  folded  hands 
We  gaze  on  the  boundless,  white  Balboa 

seas. 


This  was  written  during  my  first  railroad  ride  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco,  at  a  time  when  this  was  the 
greatest  ride  on  the  globe  and  parties  came  to  California  in  great  crowds  to  look  upon  the  Pacific.  It  is  to  be 
deplored  that  zeal  and  interest  have  BO  nearly  perished  with  the  novelty  of  the  great  journey. 


n6 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


PART  I. 


Rhyme  on,  rhyme  on,  in  reedy  flow, 
O  river,  rhymer  ever  siveet! 
The  story  of  thy  land  is  meet; 
The  stars  stand  listening  to  know. 

Rhyme  on,  0  river  of  the  earth! 
Gray  father  of  the  dreadful  seas, 
Rhyme  on!  the  world  upon  its  knees 
Invokes  thy  songs,  thy  wealth,  thy  worth. 

Rhyme  on!  the  reed  is  at  thy  mouth, 

0  kingly  minstrel,  mighty  stream! 
Thy  Crescent  City,  like  a  dream, 
Hangs  in  the  heaven  of  my  South. 

Rhyme  on,  rhyme  on!  these  broken  strings 
Sing  sioeetest  in  this  warm  south  wind; 

1  sit  thy  willow  banks  and  bind 
A  broken  harp  that  fitful  sings. 


I. 


And  where  is  my  silent,  sweet  blossoni- 
sown  town  ? 

And  where  is  her  glory,  and  what  has  she 
done? 

By  her  Mexican  seas  in  the  path  of  the 
sun, 

Sit  you  down;  in  her  crescent  of  seas,  sit 
you  down. 

Aye,  glory  enough  by  her  Mexican  seas! 
Aye,  story  enough  in  that  battle-torn  town, 
Hidden  down  in  her  crescent  of  seas,  hid 
den  down 

In  her  mantle  and  sheen  of  magnolia- 
white  trees. 


But  mine  is  the  story  of  souls;  of  a  soul 
That  barter'd  God's  limitless  kingdom  for 

gold,  — 
Sold  stars  and  all  space  for  a  thing  he  did 

hold 
In  his  palm  for  a  day;  and  then  hid  with 

the  mole: 

Sad  soul  of  a  rose-land,  of  moss-mantled 

oak — 
Gray,  Druid-old  oaks;  and  the  moss  that 

sways 

And  swings  in  the  wind  is  thebattle-smoke 
Of  duelists  dead,  in  her  storied  days: 

Sad  soul  of  a  love-laud,  of  church-bells 
and  chimes; 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH. 


117 


A  love-laud  of  altars  and  orange  flowers; 
And  that  is  the  reason  for  all  these  rhymes — 
That  church-bells  are  ringing  through  all 
these  hours! 

This  sun-land  has  churches,  has  priests 

at  prayer, 
White  nuns,  that  are  white  as  the  far  north 

snow: 

They  go  where  duty  may  bid  them  go, — 
They  dare  when  the  angel  of  death  is  there. 

This  land  has  ladies  so  fair,  so  fair, 
In  their  Creole  quarter,  with  great  black 

eyes — 
So  fair  that  the  Mayor  must  keep  them 

there 
Lest  troubles,  like  troubles  of  Troy,  arise. 

This  sun-land  has  ladies  with  eyes  held 

down, 

Held  down,  because  if  they  lifted  them, 
Why,  you  would  be  lost  in  that  old  French 

town, 
Though  even  you  held  to  God's  garment 

hem. 

This  love-land  has  ladies  so  fair,  so  fair, 
That  they  bend  their  eyes  to  the  holy  book, 
Lest  you  should  forget  yourself,  your 

prayer, 
And  never  more  cease  to  look  and  to  look. 

And  these  are  the  ladies  that  no  men 

see, 

And  this  is  the  reason  men  see  them  not; 
Better  their  modest,  sweet  mystery — 
Better  by  far  than  red  battle-shot. 

And   so,    in  this   curious  old    town   of 

tiles, 
The  proud  French  quarter  of  days  long 

gone, 

In  castles  of  Spain  and  tumble-down  piles, 
These  wonderful  ladies  live  on  and  on. 


I  sit  in  the  church  where  they  come  and 

go; 

I  dream  of  glory  that  has  long  since  gone; 
Of  the  low  raised  high,  of  the  highbrough* 

low 
As  iii  battle-torn  days  of  Napoleon. 

These  grass-plaited  places,  so  rich,  so 

poor! 
One  quaint  old  church  at  the  edge  of  the 

town 
Has  white  tombs  laid  to  the  very  church 

door — 
White  leaves  in   the  story  of  life  turn'd 

down: 

White   leaves  in   the  story   of  life  are 

these, 
The  low  white  slabs  in  the  long,  strong 

grass, 

Where  glory  has  emptied  her  hour-glass, 
And   dreams   with   the  dreamers  beneath 

the  trees. 

I  dream  with  the  dreamers  beneath  the 

sod, 
Where  souls  pass   by  to  the   great  white 

throne; 

I  count  each  tomb  as  a  mute  mile-stone 
For  weary,  sweet  souls   on   their  way  to 

God. 

I  sit  all  day  by  the  vast,  strong  stream, 
'Mid   low  white  slabs  in  the  long,  strong 

grass, 

Where  time  has  forgotten  for  aye  to  pass, 
To  dream,  and  ever  to  dream  and  to  dream. 

This  quaint  old  church,  with  its  dead  to 

the  door, 
By  the  cypress  swamp  at  the  edge  of  the 

town, 
So  restful  it   seems  that  you  want  to  sit 

down 
And  rest  yon,  and  rest  you  for  evermore. 


n8 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH. 


And  one  white  stone  is  a  lowliest  tomb 
That  has  crept  up  close  to  the  crumbling 

door, — 

Some  penitent  soul,  as  imploring  room 
Close  under  the  cross  that  is  leaning  o'er. 

'T  is  a  low  white  slab,  and  't  is  nameless, 

too, — 

Her  untold  story,  why,  who  should  know? 
Yet  God,  I  reckon,  can  read  right  through 
That  nameless  stone  to  the  bosom  below. 

And  the  roses  know,  and  they  pity  her, 

too; 

They  bend  their  heads  in  the  sun  or  rain, 
And  they  read,  and  they  read,  and  then 

read  again, 
As     children    reading    strange     pictures 

through. 

Why,  surely  her  sleep  it  should  be  pro 
found; 

For  oh,  the  apples  of  gold  above! 
And  oh,  the  blossoms  of  bridal  love! 
And  oh,  the  roses  that  gather  around! 

The  sleep  of    a    night  or  a  thousand 

morns — 

Why,  what  is  the  difference  here,  to-day? 
Sleeping  and  sleeping  the  years  away, 
With  all  earth's  roses  and  none  of  its 

thorns. 


Magnolias  white,  white  rose  and  red — 
The  palm-tree  here  and  the  cypress  there: 
Sit  down  by  the  palm  at  the  feet  of  the 

dead, 
And  hear  a  penitent's  midnight  prayer. 

II. 

The  old  churchyard  is  still  as  death; 
A  stranger  passes  to  and  fro, 
As  if  to  church — he  does  not  go; 
The  dead  night  does  not  draw  a  breath. 


A  lone  sweet  lady  prays  within. 
The  stranger  passes  by  the  door — 
Will  he  not  pray?    Is  he  so  poor 
He  has  no  prayer  for  his  sin  ? 

Is  he  so  poor?    Why,  two  strong  hands 
Are  full  and  heavy,  as  with  gold; 
They  clasp  as  clasp   two  iron  bands 
About  two  bags  with  eager  hold. 

Will  he  not  pause  and  enter  in, 
Put  down  his  heavy  load  and  rest, 
Put  off  his  garmenting  of  sin, 
As  some  black  mantle  from  his  breast  ? 

Ah  me!  the  brave  alone  can  pray, 
The  church-door  is  as  cannon's  mouth 
For  crime  to  face,  or  North  or  South, 
More  dreaded  than  dread  battle-day. 
*****  * 

Now  two  men  pace.     They  pace  apart; 
And  one  with  youth  and  truth  is  fair, 
The  fervid  sun  is  in  his  heart, 
The  tawny  South  is  in  his  hair. 

Aye,  two  men  pace— pace  left  and  right— 
The  lone  sweet  lady  prays  within; 
Aye,  two  men  pace;  the  silent  night 
Kneels  down  in  prayer  for  some  sin. 

Lo!  two  men  pace;  and  one  is  gray, 
A  blue-eyed  man  from  snow-clad  land, 
With  something  heavy  in  each  hand, — 
With  heavy  feet,  as  feet  of  clay. 

Aye,  two  men  pace;  and  one  is  light 
Of  step,  but  still  his  brow  is  dark; 
His  eyes  are  as  a  kindled  spark 
That  burns  beneath  the  brow  of  night! 

And  still  they  pace.     The  stars  are  red, 
The  tombs  are  white  as  frosted  snow; 
The  silence  is  as  if  the  dead 
Did  pace  in  couples  to  and  fro. 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH. 


III. 

The  azure  curtain  of  God's  house 
Draws  back,    and   hangs   star-pinned    to 

space; 

I  hear  the  low,  large  moon  arouse, 
And  slowly  lift  her  languid  face. 

I  see  her  shoulder  up  the  east, 
Low-necked,  and  large  as  womanhood — 
Low-necked,  as  for  some  ample  feast 
Of  gods,  within  yon  orange-wood. 

She  spreads  white  palms,  she  whispers 

peace,— 

Sweet  peace  on  earth  forevermore; 
Sweet  peace  for  two  beneath  the  trees, 
Sweet  peace  for  one  within  the  door. 

The  bent  stream,  as  God's  scimitar, 
Flashed  in  the  sun,  sweeps  on  and  on, 
Till  sheathed,  like  some  great  sword  new- 
drawn, 
In  seas  beneath  the  Carib's  star. 


The  high  moon  climbs  the  sapphire  hill, 
The  lone  sweet  lady  prays  within; 
The  crickets  keep  such  clang  and  din — 
They  are  so  loud,  earth  is  so  still! 

And  two  men  glare  in  silence  there! 
The  bitter,  jealous  hate  of  each 
Has  grown  too  deep  for  deed  or  speech — 
The  lone  sweet  lady  keeps  her  prayer. 

The  vast  moon  high  through  heaven's 

field 

In  circling  chariot  is  rolled; 
The  golden  stars  are  spun  and  reeled, 
And  woven  into  cloth  of  gold. 

The  white  magnolia  fills  the  night 
With  perfume,  as  the  proud  moon  fills 
The  glad  earth  with  her  ample  light 
From  out  her  awful  sapphire  hills. 


White  orange-blossoms  fill  the  boughs 
Above,  about  the  old  church-door; 
They  wait  the  bride,  the  bridal  vows, — 
They  never  hung  so  fair  before. 

The  two  men  glare  as  dark  as  sin! 
And  yet  all  seem  so  fair,  so  white, 
You  would  not  reckon  it  was  night, — 
The  while  the  lady  prays  within. 


IV. 

She  prays  so  very  long  and  late, — 
The  two  men,  weary,  waiting  there, — 
The  great  magnolia  at  the  gate 
Bends  drowsily  abo,ve  her  prayer. 

The  cypress  in  his  cloak  of  moss, 
That  watches  on  in  silent  gloom, 
Has  leaned  and  shaped  a  shadow  cross 
Above  the  nameless,  lowly  tomb. 

**•**•* 

What  can  she  pray  for?    What  her  sin? 
What  folly  of  a  maid  so  fair? 
What  shadows  bind  the  wondrous  hair 
Of  one  who  prays  so  long  within  ? 

The  palm-trees  guard  in  regiment, 
Stand  right  and  left  without  the  gate; 
The  myrtle-moss  trees  wait  and  wait; 
The  tall  magnolia  leans  intent. 

The  cypress-trees,  on  gnarled  old  knees, 
Far  out  the  dank  and  marshy  deep 
Where  slimy  monsters  groan  and  creep, 
Kneel  with  her  in  their  marshy  seas. 

What  can  her  sin  be  ?    Who  shall  know  ? 
The  night  flies  by, — a  bird  on  wing; 
The  men  no  longer  to  and  fro 
Stride  up  and  down,  or  anything. 

For  one,  so  weary  and  so  old, 
Has  hardly  strength  to  stride  or  stir; 
He  can  but  hold  his  bags  of  gold, — 
But  hug  his  gold  and  wait  for  her. 


120 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


The    two    stand    still, — stand   face   to 

face. 

The  moon  slides  on,  the  midnight  air 
Is  perfumed  as  a  house  of  prayer, — 
The  maiden  keeps  her  holy  place. 

Two  men!     And  one  is  gray,  but  one 
Scarce  lifts  a  full-grown  face  as  yet; 
With  light  foot  on  life's  threshold  set, — 
Is  he  the  other's  sun-born  son? 

And  one  is  of  the  land  of  snow, 
And  one  is  of  the  land  of  sun; 
A  black-eyed,  burning  youth  is  one, 
But  one  has  pulses  cold  and  slow: 

Aye,  cold  and  slow  from  clime  of  snow 
Where  Nature's  bosom,  icy  bound, 
Holds  all  her  forces,  hard,  profound, — 
Holds  close  where  all  the  South  lets  go. 

Blame    not    the  sun,     blame    not   the 

snows, — 

God's  great  schoolhouse  for  all  is  clime; 
The  great  school  teacher,  Father  Time, 
And  each  has  borne  as  best  he  knows. 

At  last  the  elder  speaks,— he  cries, — 
He  speaks  as  if  his  heart  would  break; 
He  speaks  out  as  a  man  that  dies, — 
As  dying  for  some  lost  love's  sake: 

"Come,  take  this  bag  of  gold,  and  go! 
Come,  take  one  bag!     See,  I  have  two! 
Oh,  why  stand  silent,  staring  so, 
When  I  would  share  my  gold  with  you  ? 

"  Come,  take  this  gold!  See  how  I  pray! 
See  how  I  bribe,  and  beg,  and  buy, — 
Aye,  buy!  and  beg,  as  you,  too,  may 
Some  day  before  you  come  to  die. 

"God!  take  this  gold,  I  beg,  I  pray! 
I  beg  as  one  who  thirsting  cries 
For  but  one  drop  of  drink,  and  dies 
In  some  lone,  loveless  desert  way. 


' '  You  hesitate  ?    Still  hesitate  ? 
Stand  silent  still  and  mock  my  pain? 
Still  mock  to  see  me  wait  and  wait, 
And  wait  her  love,  as  earth  waits  rain'" 


v. 

O  broken  ship!     O  starless  shore! 

0  black  and  everlasting  night! 
Where  love  comes  never  any  more 

To  light  man's  way  with  heaven's  light. 

A  godless  man  with  bags  of  gold 

1  think  a  most  unholy  sight; 
Ah,  who  so  desolate  at  night, 
Amid  death's  sleepers  still  and  cold  ? 

A  godless  man  on  holy  ground 
I  think  a  most  unholy  sight. 
I  hear  death  trailing,  like  a  hound, 
Hard  after  him,  and  swift  to  bite. 


VI. 

The  vast  moon  settles  to  the  west; 
Yet  still  two  men  beside  that  tomb, 
And  one  would  sit  thereon  to  rest, — 
Aye,  rest  below,  if  there  were  room. 

VII. 

What  is  this  rest  of  death,  sweet  friend? 
What  is  the  rising  up,  and  where? 
I  say,  death  is  a  lengthened  prayer, 
A  longer  night,  a  larger  end. 

Hear  you  the  lesson  I  once  learned: 
I  died;  I  sailed  a  million  miles 
Through  dreamful,  flowery,  restful  isles,— 
She  was  not  there,  and  I  returned. 

I  say  the  shores  of  death  and  sleep 
Are  one;  that  when  we,  wearied,  come 
To  Lethe's  waters,  and  lie  dumb, 
'Tis  death,  not  sleep,  holds  us  to  keep. 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH. 


121 


Yea,  we  lie  dead  for  need  of  rest, 
And  so  the  soul  drifts  out  and  o'er 
The  vast  still  waters  to  the  shore 
Beyond,  in  pleasant,  tranquil  quest: 

It  sails  straight  on,  forgetting  pain, 
Past  isles  of  peace,  to  perfect  rest, — 
Now  were  it  best  abide,  or  best 
Return  and  take-up  life  again? 

And  that  is  all  of  death  there  is, 
Believe  me.     If  you  find  your  love 
In  that  far  land,  then,  like  the  dove, 
Pluck  olive  boughs,  nor  back  to  this. 

But  if  you  find  your  love  not  there; 
Or  if  your  feet  feel  sure,  and  you 
Have  still  allotted  work  to  do, — 
Why,  then  haste  back  to  toil  aud  care. 

Death  is  no  mystery.     T  is  plain 
If  death  be  mystery,  then  sleep 
Is  mystery  thrice  strangely  deep, — 
For  oh,  this  coming  back  again! 

Austerest  ferryman  of  souls! 
I  see  the  gleam  of  shining  shores; 
I  hear  thy  steady  stroke  of  oars 
Above  the  wildest  wave  that  rolls. 

O  Charon,  keep  thy  somber  ships! 
I  come,  with  neither  myrrh  nor  balm, 
Nor  silver  piece  in  open  palm,— 
Just  lone,  white  silence  on  my  lips. 

VIII. 

She  prays  so  long!  she  prays  so  late! 
What  sin  in  all  this  flower  land 
Against  her  supplicating  hand 
Could  have  in  heaven  any  weight  ? 

Prays  she  for  her  sweet  self  alone? 
Prays  she  for  some  one  far  away, 
Or  some  one  near  and  dear  to-day, 
Or  some  poor  lom,  lost  soul  unknown? 


It  seems  to  me  a  selfish  thing 
To  pray  forever  for  one's  self; 
It  seeujs  to  me  like  heaping  pelf, 
In  heaven  by  hard  reckoning. 

Why,  I  would  rather  stoop  and  bear 
My  load  of  sin,  and  bear  it  well 
And  bravely  down  to  your  hard  hell, 
Than  pray  and  pray  a  selfish  prayer! 


IX. 

The  swift  chameleon  in  the  gloom — 
This  gray  morn  silence  so  profound! — 
Forsakes  its  bough,  glides  to  the  ground, 
Then  up,  and  lies  across  the  tomb, 

It  erst  was  green  as  olive-leaf; 
It  then  grew  gray  as  myrtle  moss 
The  time  it  slid  the  tomb  across; 
And  now  't  is  marble-white  as  grief. 

The  little  creature's  hues  are  gone 
Here  in  the  gray  and  ghostly  light ; 
It  lies  so  pale,  so  panting  white,— 
White  as  the  tomb  it  lies  upon. 

The  two  still  by  that  nameless  tomb! 
And  both  so  still!    You  might  have  said, 
These  two  men,  they  are  also  dead, 
And  only  waiting  here  for  room. 

How  still  beneath  the  orange-bough! 
How  tall  was  one,  how  bowed  was  one! 
The  one  was  as  a  journey  done, 
The  other  as  beginning  now. 

And  one  was  young, — young  with  that 

youth 

Eternal  that  belongs  to  truth; 
And  one  was  old,  — old  with  the  years 
That  follow  fast  on  doubts  aud  fears. 

And  yet  the  habit  of  command 
Was  his,  in  every  stubborn  part; 


122 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH. 


No  common  knave  was  he  at  heart, 
Nor  his  the  common  coward's  hand. 

He  looked  the  young  man  in  the  face, 
So  full  of  hate,  so  frank  of  hate; 
The  other,  standing  in  his  place, 
Stared  back  as  straight  and  hard  as  fate. 

And  now  he  sudden  turned  away, 
And  now  he  paced  the  path,  and  now 
Came  back  beneath  the  orange  bough, 
Pale-browed,  with  lips  as  cold  as  clay. 

As  mute  as  shadows  on  a  wall, 
As  silent  still,  as  dark  as  they, 
Before  that  stranger,  bent  and  gray, 
The   youth    stood    scornful,   proud    and 
tall. 

He  stood  a  clean  palmetto  tree 
With  Spanish  daggers  guarding  it; 
Nor  deed,  nor  word,  to  him  seemed  fit 
While  she  prayed  on  so  silently. 

He  slew  his  rival  with  his  eyes 
His  eyes  were  daggers  piercing  deep, — 
So  deep  that  blood  began  to  creep 
From    their  deep  wounds  and  drop  word- 


His    eyes    so    black,    so    bright,    that 

they 

Might  raise  the  dead,  the  living  slay, 
If  but  the  dead,  the  living  bore 
Such  hearts  as  heroes  had  of  yore. 

Two  deadly  arrows  barbed  in  black, 
And  feathered,  too,  with  raven's  wing; 
Two  arrows  that  could  silent  sting, 
And  with  a  death-wound  answer  back. 

How  fierce  he  was!  how  deadly  still 
In  that  mesmeric,  searching  stare 
Turned  on  the  pleading  stranger  there 
That  drew  to  him,  despite  his  will! 


So  like  a  bird  down-fluttering, 
Down,    down,    beneath  a   snake's  bright 

eyes, 

He  stood,  a  fascinated  thing, 
That  hopeless,  unresisting,  dies. 

He  raised  a  hard  hand  as  before, 
Reached  out  the  gold,  and  offered  it 
With  hand  that  shook  as  ague-tit, — 
The  while  the  youth  but  scorned  the  more. 

"  You  will  not  touch  it  ?    In  God's  name, 
Who  are  you,  and  what  are  you,  then  ? 
Come,  take  this  gold,  and  be  of  men, — 
A  human  form  with  human  aim. 

•''Yea,  take  this  gold, — she  must  be  mine! 
She  shall  be  mine!     I  do  not  fear 
Your  scowl,  your  scorn,  your  soul  austere, 
The  living,  dead,  or  your  dark  sign, 

"I  saw  her  as  she  entered  there; 
I  saw  her,  and  uncovered  stood; 
The  perfume  of  her  womanhood 
Was  holy  incense  on  the  air, 

"  She  left  behind  sweet  sanctity, 
Religion  went  the  way  she  went; 
I  cried  I  would  repent,  repent! 
She  passed  on,  all  unheeding  me. 

"Her  soul  is  young,  her  eyes  are  bright 
And  gladsome,  as  mine  own  are  dim; 
But  oh,  I  felt  my  senses  swim 
The  time  she  passed  me  by  to-night! — 

"The  time   she  passed,  nor  raised  her 

eyes 

To  hear  me  cry  1  would  repent, 
Nor  turned  her  head  to  hear  my  cries, 
But  swifter  went  the  way  she  went, — 

"Went   swift   as  youth,   for  all  these 

years! 
And  this  the  strangest  thing  appears, 


A    SONG   OF   THE    SOUTH. 


123 


That  lady  there  seems  just  the  same,— 
Sweet  Gladys- — Ah!  you  know  her  name? 

"  You  heather  name  and  start  that  I 
Should  name  her  dear  name   trembling 

80? 

Why,  boy,  when  I  shall  come  to  die 
That  name  shall  be  the  last  I  know. 

"That  name  shall  be  the  last  sweet 

name 

My  lips  shall  utter  in  this  life! 
That  name  is  brighter  than  bright  flame, — 
That  lady  is  mine  own  sweet  wife! 

"Ah,    start    and    catch  your   burning 

breath! 

Ah,  start  and  clutch  your  deadly  knife! 
If  this  be  death,  then  be  it  death,— 
But  that  loved  lady  is  my  wife! 

"Tea,  you  are   stunned!   your  face  is 

white, 

That  I  should  come  confronting  you, 
As  comes  a  lorn  ghost  of  the  night 
From  out  the  past,  and  to  pursue. 

"You  thought  me  dead?    You   shake 

your  head, 

You  start  back  horrified  to  know 
That  she  is  loved,  that  she  is  wed, 
That  you  have  sinned  in  loving  so. 

"  Yet   what   seems   strange,    that  lady 

there, 

Housed  in  the  holy  house  of  prayer. 
Seems  just  the  same  for  all  her  tears, — 
For  all  my  absent  twenty  years. 

• 

"  Yea,  twenty  years  to-night,  to-night, — 
Just  twenty  years  this  day,  this  hour, 
Since  first  I  plucked  that  perfect  flower, 
And  not  one  witness  of  the  rite. 

"Nay,  do  not  doubt,— I  tell  you  true! 
Her  prayers,  her  tears,  her  constancy 


Are  all  for  me,  are  all  for  me,  — 
And  not  one  single  thought  for  you! 

"  I  knew,  I  knew  she  would  be  here 
This  night  of  nights  to  pray  for  me! 
And  how  could  I  for  twenty  year 
Know  this  same  night  so  certainly? 

"Ah  me!  some  thoughts  that  we  would 

drown, 

Stick  closer  than  a  brother  to 
The  conscience,  and  pursue,  pursue, 
Like  baying  hound,  to  hunt  us  down. 

"And,  then,  that  date  is  history; 
For  on  that  night  this  shore  was  shelled, 
And  many  a  noble  mansion  felled, 
With  many  a  noble  family. 

"I  wore  the  blue;  I  watched  the  flight 
Of  shells,    like   stars  tossed  through  the 

air 

To  blow  your  hearth-stones — anywhere, 
That  wild,  illuminated  night. 

"  Nay,  rage  befits  you  not  so  well; 
Why,  you  were  but  a  babe  at  best; 
Your  cradle  some  sharp  bursted  shell 
That  tore,  maybe,  your  mother's  breast! 

"Hear    me!      We    came     in    honored 

war. 

The  risen  world  was  on  your  track! 
The  whole  North-land  was  at  our  back, 
From  Hudson's  bank  to  the  North  Star! 

"And  from  the  North  to  palm-set  sea 
The  splendid  fiery  cyclone  swept. 
Your  fathers  fell,  your  mothers  wept, 
|   Their  nude  babes  clinging  to  the  knee. 

"A  wide  and  desolated  track: 
Behind,  a  path  of  ruin  lay; 
Before,  some  women  by  the  way 
Stood  mutely  gazing,  clad  in  black. 


I24 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


'  From  silent  women  waiting  there 
White  tears   came  down  like  still,  small 

rain; 

Their  own  sons  of  the  battle-plain 
Were  now  but  viewless  ghosts  of  air. 

"  Their  own  dear,  daring  boys  in  gray, — 
They  should  not  see  them  any  more; 
Our  cruel  drums  kept  telling  o'er 
The  time  their  own  sons  went  away. 

•'Through  burning  town,  by  bursting 

shell- 
Yea,  I  remember  well  that  night; 
I  led  through  orange-lanes  of  light, 
As  through  some  hot  outpost  of  hell! 

"That  night  of  rainbow  shot  and  shell 
Sent  from  yon  surging  river's  breast 
To  waken  me,  no  more  to  rest, — 
That  night  I  should  remember  well! 

"That    night,   amid  the  maimed  and 

dead — 

A  night  in  history  set  down 
By  light  of  many  a  burning  town, 
And  written  all  across  in  red, — 

"  Her  father  dead,  her  brothers  dead, 
Her  home  in  flames, — what  else  could  she 
But  fly  all  helpless  here  to  me, 
A  fluttered  dove,  that  night  of  dread? 

"  Short  time,  hot  time  had  I  to  woo 
Amid  the  red  shells'  battle-chime; 
But  women  rarely  reckon  time, 
And  perils  waken  love  anew. 

"  Aye,  then  I  wore  a  captain's  sword; 
And,  too,  had  oftentime  before 
Doffed  cap  at  her  dead  father's  door, 
And  passed  a  lover's  pleasant  word. 

"And  then — ah,  I  was  comely  then! 
I  bore  no  load  upon  my  back, 


I  heard  no  hounds  upon  my  track, 
But  stood  the  tallest  of  tall  men, 

"  Her  father's  and  her  mother's  shrine, 
This  church  amid  the  orange- wood; 
So  near  and  so  secure  it  stood, 
It  seemed  to  beckon  as  a  sign. 

•'Its    white    cross    seemed    to    beckon 

me; 

My  heart  was  strong,  and  it  was  mine 
To  throw  myself  upon  my  knee, 
To  beg  to  lead  her  to  this  shrine. 

"  She  did  consent.     Through  lanes  of 

light 

I  led  through  this  church-door  that  night — 
Let  fall    your    hand!      Take    back  your 

face 
And  stand, — stand  patient  in  your  place! 

"  She  loved  me;  and  she  loves  me  still. 
Yea,  she  clung  close  to  me  that  hour 
As  honey-bee  to  honey-flower,  — 
And  still  is  mine  through  good  or  ill. 

"  The  priest  stood  there.     He  spake  the 

prayer; 

He  made  the  holy,  mystic  sign, 
And  she  was  mine,  was  wholly  mine,— 
Is  mine  this  moment,  I  can  swear! 

"Then  days,  then  nights  of   vast  de 
light,— 

Then  came  a  doubtful  later  day; 
The  faithful  priest,  now  far  away, 
Watched  with  ihe  dying  in  the  fight: 

"The  priest  amid  the  dying,  dead,/ 
Kept  duty  on  the  battle-field, — 
That  midnight  marriage  unrevealed 
Kept  strange  thoughts  running  thro'  my 
head. 

"  At  last  a  stray  ball  struck  the  priest; 
This  vestibule  his  chancel  was; 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


125 


And  now  none  lived  to  speak  her  cause, 
Record,  or  champion  her  the  least. 

"  Hear  me!  I  had  been  bred  to  hate 
All  priests,  their  mummeries  and  all. 
Ah,  it  was  fate,—  ah,  it  was  fate 
That  all  things  tempted  to  my  fall! 

"And  then  the  dashing  songs  we  sang 
Those  nights  when  rudely  reveling,— 
Such  songs  that  only  soldiers  sing,— 


"  What    is    the    rhyme    that    rhymers 

say, 

Of  maidens  born  to  be  betrayed 
By  epaulettes  and  shining  blade, 
While  soldiers  love  and  ride  away  ? 

"And  then  my  comrades  spake  her  name 
Half  taunting,  with  a  touch  of  shame; 
Taught  me  to  hold  that  lily-flower 
As  some  light  pastime  of  the  hour. 


"And  then  the  ruin  in  the  land, 
The  death,  dismay,  the  lawlessness! 
Men  gathered  gold  on  every  hand,  — 
Heaped    gold:     and    why    should    I    do 
less? 

"The  cry  for  gold  was  in  the  air,— 
For  Creole  gold,  for  precious  things; 
The  sword  kept  prodding  here  and  there, 
Through  bolts  and  sacred  fastenings. 

"'Get  gold!   get  gold!'    This  was  the 

cry. 

And  I  loved  gold.     What  else  could  I 
Or  you,  or  any  earnest  one, 
Born  in  this  getting  age,  have  done  ? 

"With  this  one  lesson  taught  from  youth, 
And  ever  taught  us,  to  get  gold,— 
To  get  and  hold,  and  ever  hold,— 
What  else  could  I  have  done,  forsooth? 


''  She,  seeing  how  I  crazed  for  gold, — 
This  girl,  my  wife,  one  late  night  told 
Of  treasures  hidden  close  at  hand, 
In  her  dead  father's  mellow  land; 

"  Of  gold  she  helped  her  brothers  hide 
Beneath  a  broad  banana-tree 
The  day  the  two  in  battle  died, 
The  night  she,  dying,  fled  to  me. 

"  It  seemed  too  good;  I  laughed  to  scorn 
Her  trustful  tale.     She  answered  not; 
But  meekly  on  the  morrow  morn 
These  two  great  bags  of  bright  gold  brought . 

;'And  when   she  brought  this  gold   to 

me,— 

Red  Creole  gold,  rich,  rare,  and  old, — 
When  I  at  last  had  gold,  sweet  gold, 
I  cried  in  very  ecstasy. 

"Red  gold!  rich  gold!  two  bags  of  gold! 
The  two  stout  bags  of  gold  she  brought 
And  gave,  with  scarce  a  second  thought, — 
Why,  her  two  hands  could  scarcely  hold! 

"Now  I  had  gold!  two  bags  of  gold! 
Two  wings  of  gold,  to  fly,  and  fly 
The  wide  world's  girth;  red  gold  to  hold 
Against  my  heart  for  aye  and  aye! 

"  My  country's  lesson:  '  Gold!  get  gold!' 
I  learned  it  well  in  land  of  snow; 
And  what  can  glow,  so  brightty  glow, 
Long  winter  nights  of  northern  cold? 

"Aye,  now  at  last,  at  last  I  had 
The  one  thing,  all  fair  things  above, 
My  land  had  taught  me  most  to  love! 
A  miser  now!  and  I  grew  mad. 

"With  these  two  bags  of  gold  my  own, 
I  soon  began  to  plan  some  night 
For  flight,  for  far  and  sudden  flight, — 
For  flight;  and,  too,  for  flight  alone. 


126 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


"I  feared!    I   feared!     My  heart  grew 

cold, — 

Some  one  might  claim  this  gold  of  me! 
I  feared  her, — feared  her  purity — 
Feared  all  things  but  my  bags  of  gold. 

"  I  grew  to  hate  her  face,  her  creed, — 
That  face  the  fairest  ever  yet 
That  bowed  o'er  holy  cross  or  bead, 
Or  yet  was  in  God's  image  set. 

"I  fled, — nay,  not  so  knavish  low, 
As  you  have  fancied,  did  I  fly: 
I  sought  her  at  this  shrine,  and  I 
Told  her  full  frankly  I  should  go. 

"I stood  a  giant  in  my  power, — 
And  did  she  question  or  dispute? 
I  stood  a  savage,  selfish  brute, — 
She  bowed  her  head,  a  lily-flower. 


"And  when  I  sudden  turned  to  go, 
And  told  her  I  should  come  no  more, 
She  bowed  her  head  so  low,  so  low, 
Her  vast  black  hair  fell  pouring  o'er. 

"And  that  was  all;  her  splendid  face 
Was  mantled  from  me,  and  her  night 
Of  hair  half  hid  her  from  my  sight, 
As  she  fell  moaning  in  her  place. 

"And  there,  through  her  dark  night  of 

hair, 

She  sobbed,  low  moaning  in  hot  tears, 
That  she  would  wait,  wait  all  the  years, — 
Would  wait  and  pray  in  her  despair. 

"Nay,  did  not  murmur,  not  deny, — 
She  did  not  cross  me  one  sweet  word! 
I  turned  and  fled;  I  thought  I  heard 
A  night-bird's  piercing  low  death-cry!" 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


127 


PART  II. 

How  soft  the  moonlight  of  my  South! 
How  sweet  the  South  in  soft  moonlight! 
I  want  to  kiss  her  warm,  sweet  mouth 
As  she  lies  sleeping  here  to-night. 

How  still!  I  do  not  hear  a  mouse. 
I  see  some  bursting  buds  appear; 
I  hear  God  in  his  garden, — hear 
Him  trim  some  flowers  for  His  house. 

I  hear  some  singing  stars;   the  mouth 
Of  my  vast  river  sings  and  sings, 
And  pipes  on  reeds  of  pleasant  things, — 
Of  splendid  promise  for  my  South: 

My  great  South-woman,  soon  to  rise 
And  tiptoe  up  and  loose  her  hair; 
Tiptoe,  and  fake  from  out  the  skies 
God's  stars  and  glorious  moon  to  wear! 


I. 

The  poet  shall  create  or  kill, 
Bid  heroes  live,  bid  braggarts  die. 
I  look  against  a  lurid  sky, — 
My  silent  South  lies  proudly  still. 

The  fading  light  of  burning  lands 
Still  climbs  to  God's  house  overhead; 
Mute  women  wring  white,  withered  hands; 
Their  eyes  are  red,  their  skies  are  red. 

And  we  still  boast  our  bitter  wars! 
Still  burn  and  boast,  and  boast  and  lie 
But  God's  white  finger  spins  the  stars 
In  calm  dominion  of  the  sky. 


And  not  one  ray  of  light  the  less 
Comes  down  to  bid  the  grasses  spring; 
No  drop  of  dew  nor  anything 
Shall  fail  for  all  our  bitterness. 

If  man  grows  large,  is  God  the  less? 
The  moon  shall  rise  and  set  the  same, 
The  great  sun  spill  his  splendid  flame, 
And  clothe  the  world  in  queenliness. 

Yea,  from  that  very  blood-soaked  sod 
Some    large-souled,    seeing  youth    shall 

come 

Some  day,  and  he  shall  not  be  dumb 
Before  the  awful  court  of  God. 


128 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


II. 

The  weary  moon  had  turned  away, 
The  far  North  Star  was  turning  pale 
To  hear  the  stranger's  boastful  tale 
Of  blood  and  flame  that  battle-day. 

And  yet  again  the  two  men  glared, 
Close  face  to  face  above  that  tomb; 
Each  seemed  as  jealous  of  the  room 
The  other,  eager  waiting  shared. 

Again  the  man  began  to  say, — 
As  taking  up  some  broken  thread, 
As  talking  to  the  patient  dead, — 
The  Creole  was  as  still  as  they: 

"That    night    we  burned   yon    grass- 
grown  town, — 

The  grasses,  vines  are  reaching  up; 
The  ruins  they  are  reaching  down, 
As  sun-browned  soldiers  when  they  sup. 

"  I  knew  her, — knew  her  constancy. 
She  said  this  night  of  every  year 
She  here  would  come,  and  kneeling  here, 
Would  pray  the  livelong  night  for  me. 

"This  praying  seems  a  splendid  thing! 
It  drives  old  Time  the  other  way; 
It  makes  him  lose  all  reckoning 
Of  years  that  I  have  had  to  pay. 

"This  praying  seems  a  splendid  thing! 
It  makes  me  stronger  as  she  prays — 
But  oh,  those  bitter,  bitter  days, 
When  I  became  a  banished  thing! 

"  I  fled,  took  ship,— I  fled  as  far 
As  far  ships  drive  tow'rd  the  North  Star: 
For  I  did  hate  the  South,  the  sun 
That  made  me  think  what  I  had  done. 

' '  I  could  not  see  a  fair  palm-tree 
In  foreign  land,  in  pleasant  place, 


But  it  would  whisper  of  her  face 

And  shake  its  keen,  sharp  blades  at  me. 

"  Each  black-eyed  woman  would  recall 
A  lone  church-door,  a  face,  a  name, 
A  coward's  flight,  a  soldier's  shame: 
I  fled  from  woman's  face,  from  all. 

"  I  hugged  my  gold,  my  precious  gold, 
Within  my  strong,  stout  buckskin  vest. 
I  wore  my  bags  against  my  breast 
So  close  I  felt  my  heart  grow  cold. 

"I  did  not  like  to  see  it  now; 
I  did  not  spend  one  single  piece; 
I  traveled,  traveled  without  cease 
As  far  as  Russian  ship  could  plow. 

"And  when  my  own  scant  hoard  was 

gone, 

And  I  had  reached  the  far  North-land, 
I  took  my  two  stout  bags  in  hand 
As  one  pursued,  and  journeyed  on. 

"  Ah,  I  was  weary!     I  grew  gray; 
I  felt  the  fast  years  slip  and  reel, 
As  slip  bright  beads  when  maidens  kneel 
At  altars  when  outdoor  is  gay. 

"  At  last  I  fell  prone  in  the  road, — 
Fell  fainting  with  my  cursed  load. 
A  skin-clad  Cossack  helped  me  bear 
My  bags,  nor  would  one  shilling  share. 

"He  looked  at  me  with  proud  disdain, — 
He  looked  at  me  as  if  he  knew; 
His  black  eyes  burned  me  thro'  and  thro'; 
His  scorn  pierced  like  a  deadly  pain. 

"He  frightened  me  with  honesty; 
He  made  me  feel  so  small,  so  base, 
I  fled,  as  if  a  fiend  kept  chase,— 
A  fiend  that  claimed  my  company! 

"  I  bore  my  load  alone;  I  crept 
Far  up  the  steep  and  icy  way; 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


I29 


And  there,  before  a  cross  there  lay 

A  barefoot  priest,  who  bowed  and  wept. 

"  I  threw  my  gold  right  down  and  sped 
Straight  on.     And  oh,  nay  heart  was  light! 
A  springtime  bird  in  springtime  flight 
Flies  scarce  more  happy  than  I  fled. 

"  I  felt  somehow  this  monk  would  take 
My  gold,  my  load  from  off  my  back; 
Would  turn  the  fiend  from  off  my  track, 
Would   take  my  gold  for   sweet   Christ's 
sake! 

"  I  fled;  I  did  not  look  behind; 
I  fled,  fled  with  the  mountain  wind. 
At  last,  far  down  the  mountain's  base 
I  found  a  pleasant  resting-place. 

"  I  rested  there  so  long,  so  well, 
More  grateful  than  all  tongues  can  tell. 
It  was  such  pleasant  thing  to  hear 
That  valley's  voices  calm  and  clear: 

"That  valley  veiled  in  mountain  air, 
With  white  goats  on  the  hills  at  morn; 
That  valley  green  with  seas  of  corn, 
With  cottage-islands  here  and  there. 

1 '  I  watched  the  mountain  girls.    The  hay 
They  mowed  was  not   more  sweet   than 

they; 

They  laid  brown  hands  in  my  white  hair; 
They  marveled  at  my  face  of  care. 

"I  tried  to  laugh;  I  could  but  weep. 
I  made  these  peasants  one  request, — 
That  I  with  them  might  toil  or  rest, 
And  with  them  sleep  the  long,  last  sleep. 

"I  begged  that  I  might  battle  there, 
In  that  fair  valley-laud,  for  those 
Who  gave  me  cheer,  when  girt  with  foes, 
And  have  a  country  loved  as  fair. 


"  Where  is  that  spot  that  poets  name 
Our  country?  name  the  hallowed  land? 
Where  is  that  spot  where  man  must  stand 
Or  fall  when  girt  with  sworn  and  flame? 

Where  is  that  one  permitted  spot  ? 
Where  is  the  one  place  man  must  fight? 
Where  rests  the  one  God-given  right 
To  fight,  as  ever  patriots  fought  ? 

"  I  say  'tis  in  that  holy  house 
Where  God  first  set  us  down  on  earth; 
Where  mother  welcomed  us  at  birth, 
And  bared  her  breasts,  a  happy  spouse. 

"  The  simple  plowboy  from  his  field 
Looks  forth.     He  sees  God's  purple  wall 
Encircling  him.     High  over  all 
The  vast  sun  wheels  his  shining  shield. 

"  This  King,  who  makes  earth  what  it 

is,- 
King  David  bending  to  his  toil! 

0  lord  and  master  of  the  soil, 
How  envied  in  thy  loyal  bliss! 

"  Long  live  the  land  we  loved  in  youth 
That  world  with  blue  skies  bent  about, 
Where  never  entered  ugly  doubt! 
Long  live  the  simple,  homely  truth! 

"Can  true  hearts  love  some  far  snow- 
laud, 

Some  bleak  Alaska  bought  with  gold  ? 
God's  laws  are  old  as  love  is  old; 
And  Home  is  something  near  at  hand. 

"Yea,    change  you  river's  course;  es 
trange 

The  seven  sweet  stars;  make  hate  divide 
The  full  moon  from  the  flowing  tide, — 
But  this  old  truth  ye  cannot  change. 

"I  begged  a  land  as  begging  bread; 

1  begged  of  these  brave  mountaineers 


130 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


To  share  their  sorrows,  share  their  tears; 
To  weep  as  they  wept  with  their  dead. 

"They  did   consent.      The    mountain 

town 

Was  mine  to  love,  and  valley  lands. 
That  night  the  barefoot  monk  came  down 
And  laid  my  two  bags  in  my  hands! 

"On!  on!     And  oh,  the  load  I  bore! 
Why,  once  I  dreamed  my  soul  was  lead; 
Dreamed  once  it  was  a  body  dead! 
It  made  my  cold,  hard  bosom  sore. 

"I  dragged  that  body  forth  and  back — 

0  conscience,  what  a  baying  hound! 
Nor  frozen  seas  nor  frosted  ground 

Can  throw  this  bloodhound  from  his  track. 

"  In  farthest  Russia  I  lay  down, 
A  dying  man,  at  last  to  rest; 

1  felt  such  load  upon  my  breast 

As  seamen  feel,  who,  sinking,  drown. 

"That  night,  all  chill  and  desperate, 
I  sprang  up,  for  I  could  not  rest; 
I  tore  the  two  bags  from  my  breast, 
And  dashed  them  in  the  burning  grate. 

"  I  then  crept  back  into  my  bed; 
I  tried,  I  begged,  I  prayed  to  sleep; 
But  those  red,  restless  coins  would  keep 
Slow  dropping,  dropping,  and  blood-red. 

"I  heard  them   clink,  and  clink,  and 

clink,  — 
They  turned,    they   talked    within    that 

grate. 

They  talked  of  her;  they  made  me  think 
Of  one  who  still  did  pray  and  wait. 

"And  when  the  bags  burned  crisp  and 

black, 

Two  coins  did  start,  roll  to  the  floor, — 
Roll  out,  roll  on,  and  then  roll  back, 
As  if  they  needs  must  journey  more. 


"Ah,  then  I  knew  nor  change  nor  space, 
Nor  all  the  drowning  years  that  rolled 
Could  hide  from  me  her  haunting  face, 
Nor  still  that  red-tongued,  talking  gold! 

"  Again  I  sprang  forth  from  my  bed! 
I  shook  as  in  an  ague  fit; 
I  clutched  that  red  gold,  burning  red, 
I  clutched  as  if  to  strangle  it. 

"  I  clutched  it  up — you  hear  me,  boy? — 
I  clutched  it  up  with  joyful  tears! 
I  clutched  it  close  with  such  wild  joy 
I  had  not  felt  for  years  and  years  ? 

"Such  joy!  for  I  should  now  retrace 
My  steps,  should  see  my  land,  her  face; 
Bring  back  her  gold  this  battle-day, 
And  see  her,  hear  her,  hear  her  pray! 

"  I  brought  it  back— you  hear  me,  boy  ? 
I  clutch  it,  hold  it,  hold  it  now; 
Red  gold,  bright  gold  that  giveth  joy 
To  all,  and  anywhere  or  how; 

"That  giveth  joy  to  all  but  me, — 
To  all  but  me,  yet  soon  to  all. 
It  burns  my  hands,  it  burns!  but  she 
Shall  ope  my  hands  and  let  it  fall. 

"For  oh,  I  have  a  willing  hand 
To  give  these  bags  of  gold;  to  see 
Her  smile  as  once  she  smiled  on  me 
Here  in  this  pleasant  warm  palm-land." 

He  ceased,  he  thrust  each  hard-clenched 

fist,— 

He  threw  his  gold  hard  forth  again, 
As  one  impelled  by  some  mad  pain 
He  would  not  or  could  not  resist. 

The  Creole,  scorning,  turned  away, 
As  if  he  turned  from  that  lost  thief, — 
The  one  who  died  without  belief 
That  dark,  dread  crucifixion  day. 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


III. 

Believe  in  man  nor  turn  away. 
Lo!  man  advances  year  by  year; 
Time  bears  him  upward,  and  his  sphere 
Of  life  must  broaden  day  by  day. 

Believe  in  man  with  large  belief; 
The  garnered  grain  each  harvest-time 
Hath  promise,  roundness,  and  full  prime 
For  all  the  empty  chaff  and  sheaf. 

Believe  in  man  with  brave  belief; 
Truth  keeps  the  bottom  of  her  well; 
And  when  the  thief  peeps  down,  the  thief 
Peeps  back  at  him  perpetual. 

Faint  not  that  this  or  that  man  fell; 
For  one  that  falls  a  thousand  rise 
To  lift  white  Progress  to  the  skies: 
Truth  keeps  the  bottom  of  her  well. 

Fear  not  for  man,  nor  cease  to  delve 
For  cool,  sweet  truth,  with  large  belief. 
Lo!  Christ  himself  chose  only  twelve, 
Yet  one  of  these  turned  out  a  thief. 


IV. 

Down  through  the  dark  magnolia  leaves, 
Where  climbs  the  rose  of  Cherokee 
Against  the  orange-blossomed  tree, 
A  loom  of  morn-light  weaves  and  weaves, — 

A  loom  of  morn-light,  weaving  clothes 
From  snow-white  rose  of  Cherokee, 
And  bridal  blooms  of  orange-tree, 
For  fairy  folk  housed  in  red  rose. 

Down   through   the    mournful    myrtle 

crape, 

Thro'  moving  moss,  thro'  ghostly  gloom, 
A  long,  white  morn-beam  takes  a  shape 
Above  a  nameless,  lowly  tomb; 

A  long  white  finger  through  the  gloom 
Of  grasses  gathered  round  about, — 


As  God's  white  finger  pointing  out 
A  name  upon  that  nameless  tomb. 


V. 

Her  white  face  bowed  in  her  black  hair, 
The  maiden  prays  so  still  within 
That  you  might  hear  a  falling  pin, — 
Aye,  hear  her  white,  unuttered  prayer. 

The  moon  has  grown  disconsolate, 
Has  turned  her  down  her  walk  of  stars: 
Why,  she  is  shutting  up  her  bars, 
As  maidens  shut  a  lover's  gate. 

The  moon  has  grown  disconsolate; 
She  will  no  longer  watch  and  wait. 
But  two  men  wait;  and  two  men  will 
Wait  on  till  full  morn,  mute  and  still- 

Still  wait  and  walk  among  the  trees 
Quite  careless  if  the  moon  may  keep 
Her  walk  along  her  starry  steep 
Or  drown  her  in  the  Southern  seas. 

They  know  no  moon,  or  set  or  rise 
Of  sun,  or  anything  to  light 
The  earth  or  skies,  save  her  dark  eyes, 
This  praying,  waking,  watching  night. 

They  move  among  the  tombs  apart, 
Their  eyes  turn  ever  to  that  door; 
They  know  the  worn  walks  there  by  heart — 
They  turn  and  walk  them  o'er  and  o'er. 

They  are  not  wide,  these  little  walks 
For  dead  folk  by  this  crescent  town: 
They  lie  right  close  when  they  lie  down, 
As  if  they  kept  up  quiet  talks. 

VI. 

The  two  men  keep  their  paths  apart; 
But  more  and  more  begins  to  stoop 
The  man  with  gold,  as  droop  and  droop 
Tall  plants  with  something  at  their  heart. 


I32 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


Now  once  again,  with  eager  zest, 
He  offers  gold  with  silent  speech; 
The  other  will  not  walk  in  reach, 
But  walks  around,  as  round  a  pest. 

His  dark  eyes  sweep  the  scene  around, 
His  young  face  drinks  the  fragrant  air, 
His  dark  eyes  journey  everywhere, — 
The  other's  cleave  unto  the  ground. 

It  is  a  weary  walk  for  him, 
For  oh,  he  bears  such  weary  load! 
He  does  not  like  that  narrow  road 
Between  the  dead— it  is  so  dim: 

It  is  so  dark,  that  narrow  place, 
Where  graves  lie  thick,  like  yellow  leaves: 
Give  us  the  light  of  Christ  and  grace; 
Give  light  to  garner  in  the  sheaves. 

Give  light  of  love;  for  gold  is  cold,— 
Aye,  gold  is  cruel  as  a  crime; 
It  gives  no  light  at  such  sad  time 
As  when  man's  feet  wax  weak  and  old. 

Aye,  gold  is  heavy,  hard,  and  cold! 
And  have  I  said  this  thing  before? 
Well,  I  will  say  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
'T  were  need  be  said  ten  thousand  fold. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread," — 
Get  this  of  God;  then  all  the  rest 
IB  housed  in  thine  own  earnest  breast, 
If  you  but  lift  an  honest  head. 


VII. 

Oh,  I  have  seen  men  tall  and  fair, 
Stoop  down  their  manhood  with  disgust,- 
Stoop  down  God's  image  to  the  dust, 
To  get  a  load  of  gold  to  bear: 

Have  seen  men  selling  day  by  day 
The  glance  of  manhood  that  God  gave: 


To  sell  God's  image,  as  a  slave 
Might  sell  some  little  pot  of  clay! 

Behold!  here  in  this  green  graveyard 
A  man  with  gold  enough  to  fill 
A  coffin,  as  a  miller's  till; 
And  yet  his  path  is  hard,  so  hard! 

His  feet  keep  sinking  in  the  sand, 
And  now  so  near  an  opened  grave! 
He  seems  to  hear  the  solemn  wave 
Of  dread  oblivion  at  hand. 

The  sands,  they  grumble  so,  it  seems 
As  if  he  walks  some  shelving  brink; 
He  tries  to  stop,  he  tries  to  think, 
He  tries  to  make  believe  he  dreams: 

Why,  he  was  free  to  leave  the  land, — 
The  silver  moon  was  white  as  dawn; 
Why,  he  has  gold  in  either  hand, 
Had  silver  ways  to  walk  upon. 

And  who  should  chide,  or  bid  him  stay? 
Or  taunt,  or  threat,  or  bid  him  fly? 
11  The  world  's  for  sale,"  I  hear  men  say, 
And  yet  this  man  had  gold  to  buy. 

Buy  what?  Buy  rest?  He  could  not  rest! 
Buy  gentle  sleep  ?  He  could  not  sleep, 
Though  all  these  graves  were  wide  and 

deep 
As  their  wide  mouths  with  the  request. 

Buy  Love,  buy  faith,  buy  snow-white 

truth? 

Buy  moonlight,  sunlight,  present,  past? 
Buy  but  one  brimful  cup  of  youth 
That  true  souls  drink  of  to  the  last? 

O  God!  'twas  pitiful  to  see 
This  miser  so  forlorn  and  old! 
O  God!  how  poor  a  man  may  be 
With  nothing  in  this  world  but  gold! 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH. 


133 


VIII. 

The  broad  magnolia's  blooms  were  white; 
Her  blooms  were  large,  as  if  the  moon 
Quite  lost  her  way  that  dreamful  night, 
And  lodged  to  wait  the  afternoon. 

Oh,  vast  white  blossoms,  breathing  love! 
White  bosom  of  my  lady  dead, 
In  your  white  heaven  overhead 
I  look,  and  learn  to  look  above. 


IX. 

The  dew- wet  roses  wept;  their  eyes 
All  dew,  their  breath  as  sweet  as  prayer. 
And  as  they  wept,  the  dead  down  there 
Did  feel  their  tears  and  hear  their  sighs. 

The  grass  uprose,  as  if  afraid 
Some  stranger  foot  might  press  too  near; 
Its  every  blade  was  like  a  spear, 
Its  every  spear  a  living  blade. 

The  grass  above  that  nameless  tomb 
Stood  all  arrayed,  as  if  afraid 
Some  weary  pilgrim,  seeking  room 
And  rest,  might  lay  where  she  was  laid. 


X. 

'T  was  morn,  and  yet  it  was  not  morn; 
Twas  morn  in  heaven,  not  on  earth: 
A  star  was  singing  of  a  birth, — 
Just  saying  that  a  day  was  born. 

The    marsh    hard    by   that  bound  the 

lake,— 

The  great  stork  sea-lake,  Ponchartrain, 
Shut  off  from  sultry  Cuban  main, — 
Drew  up  its  legs,  as  half  awake: 

Drew  long,    thin   legs,    stork-legs  that 

steep 

In  slime  where  alligators  creep, — 
Drew  long,  green  legs  that  stir  the  grass, 
As  when  the  lost,  lorn  night  winds  pass. 


Then   from   the  marsh  came  croakings 

low; 
Then    louder    croaked     some    sea-marsh 

beast; 

Then,  far  away  against  the  east, 
God's  rose  of  morn  began  to  grow. 

From  out  the  marsh  against  that  east, 
A  ghostly  moss-swept  cypress  stood; 
With  ragged  arms,  above  the  wood 
It  rose,  a  God-forsaken  beast. 

It  seemed  so  frightened  where  it  rose! 
The  moss-hung  thing,  it  seemed  to  wave 
The  worn-out  garments  of  a  grave, — 
To  wave  and  wave  its  old  grave-clothes. 

Close  by,  a  cow  rose  up  and  lowed 
From  out  a  palm-thatched  milking-shed; 
A  black  boy  on  the  river  road 
Fled  sudden,  as  the  night  had  fled: 

A  nude  black  boy, — a  bit  of  night 
That  had  been  broken  off  and  lost 
From  flying  night,  the  time  it  crossed 
The  soundless  river  in  its  flight: 

A  bit  of  darkness,  following 
The  sable  night  on  sable  wing,— 
A  bit  of  darkness,  dumb  with  fear, 
Because  that  nameless  tomb  was  near. 

Then  holy  bells  came  pealing  out; 
Then    steamboats     blew,     then      horses 

neighed; 

Then  smoke  from  hamlets  round  about 
Crept  out,  as  if  no  more  afraid. 

Then  shrill  cocks  here,  and  shrill  cocks 

there, 

Stretched  glossy  necks  and  tilled  the  air; — 
How  many  cocks  it  takes  to  make 
A  country  morning  well  awake! 

Then  many  boughs,  with  many  birds, — 
Young  boughs  in    green,   old  boughs  in 
gray; 


134 


A    SONG   OF   THE    SOUTH. 


These  birds  had  very  much  to  say, 
In  their  soft,  sweet,  familiar  words. 

And  all  seemed  sudden  glad;  the  gloom 
Forgot  the  church,  forgot  the  tomb; 
And  yet,  like  monks  with  cross  and  bead, 
The  myrtles  leaned  to  read  and  read. 

And  oh,  the  fragrance  of  the  sod! 
And  oh,  the  perfume  of  the  air! 
The  sweetness,  sweetness  everywhere, 
That  rose  like  incense  up  to  God! 


I  like  a  cow's  breath  in  sweet  spring; 
I  like  the  breath  of  babes  new-born; 
A  maid's  breath  is  a  pleasant  thing, — 
But  oh,  the  breath  of  sudden  morn! — 

Of  sudden  morn,  when  every  pore 
Of  Mother  Earth  is  pulsing  fast 
With  life,  and  life  seems  spilling  o.'er 
With  love,  with  love  too  sweet  to  last: 

Of  sudden  morn  beneath  the  sun, 
By  God's  great  river  wrapped  in  gray, 
That  for  a  space  forgets  to  run, 
And  hides  his  face,  as  if  to  pray. 


XI. 

The  black-eyed  Creole  kept  his  eyes 
Turned  to  the  door,  as  eyes  might  turn 
To  see  the  holy  embers  burn 
Some  sin  away  at  sacrifice. 

Full  dawn!  but  yet  he  knew  no  dawn, 
Nor  song  of  bird,  nor  bird  on  wing, 
Nor  breath  of  rose,  nor  anything 
Her  fair  face  lifted  not  upon. 

And  yet  he  taller  stood  with  morn; 
His  bright  eyes,  brighter  than  before, 
Burned  fast  against  that  favored  door, 
His  proud  lips  lifting  still  with  scorn, — 


With  lofty,  silent  scorn  for  one 
Who  all  night  long  had  plead  and  plead, 
With  none  to  witness  but  the  dead 
How  he  for  gold  had  been  undone. 

O  ye  who  feed  a  greed  for  gold 
And  barter  truth,  and  trade  sweet  youth 
For  cold,  hard  gold,  behold,  behold! 
Behold  this  man!  behold  this  truth! 

Why  what  is  there  in  all  God's  plan 
Of  vast  creation,  high  or  low, 
By  sea  or  land,  by  sun  or  snow, 
So  mean,  so  miserly  as  man? 

»»**!*• 

Lo,  earth  and  heaven  all  let  go 
Their  garnered  riches,  year  by  year! 
The  treasures  of  the  trackless  snow, 
Ah,  hast  thou  seen  how  very  dear? 

The  wide  earth  gives,  gives  golden  grain, 
Gives  fruits  of  gold,  gives  all,  gives  all! 
Hold  forth  your  hand,  and  these  shall  fall 
In  your  full  palm  as  free  as  rain. 

Yea,  earth  is  generous.     The  trees 
Strip  nude  as  birth-time  without  fear; 
And  their  reward  is  year  by  year 
To  feel  their  fullness  but  increase. 

The  law  of  Nature  is  to  give, 
To  give,  to  give!  and  to  rejoice 
In  giving  with  a  generous  voice, 
And  so  trust  God  and  truly  live. 


But  see  this  miser  at  the  last, — 
This  man  who  loved,  who  worshipped  gold, 
Who  grasped  gold  with  such  eager  hold, 
He  fain  must  hold  forever  fast: 

As  if  to  hold  what  God  lets  go; 
As  if  to  hold,  while  all  around 
Lets  go  and  drops  upon  the  ground 
All  things  as  generous  as  snow. 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


135 


Let  go  your  hold!  let  go  or  die! 
Let  go  poor  soul!    Do  not  refuse 
Till  death  comes  by  and  shakes  you  loose, 
And  sends  you  shamed  to  hell  for  aye! 

What  if  the  sun  should  keep  his  gold? 
The  rich  moon  lock  her  silver  up  ? 
What  if  the  gold-clad  buttercup 
Became  such  miser,  mean  and  old? 

Ah,  me!  the  coffins  are  so  true 
In  all  accounts,  the  shrouds  so  thin 
That  down  there  you  might  sew  and  sew, 
Nor  ever  sew  one  pocket  in. 

And  all  that  you  can  hold  of  lands 
Down  there,  below  the  grass,  down  there, 
Will  only  be  that  little  share 
You  hold  in  your  two  dust-full  hands. 

XII. 

She  comes!  she  comes!    The  stony  floor 
Speaks  out!    And  now  the  rusty  door 
At  last  has  just  one  word  this  day. 
With  mute,  religious  lips,  to  say. 

She  comes!  she  comes!  And  lo,  her  face 
Is  upward,  radiant,  fair  as  prayer! 
So  pure  here  in  this  holy  place, 
Where  holy  peace  is  everywhere. 

Her  upraised  face,  her  face  of  light 
And  loveliness,  from  duty  done, 
Is  like  a  rising  orient  sun 
That  pushes  back  the  brow  of  night. 


How  brave,  how  beautiful  is  truth! 
Good  deeds  untold  are  like  to  this. 
But  fairest  or  all  fair  things  is 
A  pious  maiden  in  her  youth: 

A  pious  maiden  as  she  stands 
Just  on  the  threshold  ot  the  years 


That  throb  and  pulse  with  hopes  and  fears, 
And  reaches  God  her  helpless  hands. 


How  fair  is  she!    How  fond  is  she! 
Her  foot  upon  the  threshold  there. 
Her  breath  is  as  a  blossomed  tree,— 
This  maiden  mantled  in  her  hair! 

Her  hair,  her  black  abundant  hair, 
Where  night  inhabited,  all  night 
And  all  this  day,  will  not  take  flight, 
But  finds  content  and  houses  there. 

Her  hands  are  clasped,  her  two  small 

hands: 

They  hold  the  holy  book  of  prayer 
Just  as  she  steps  the  threshold  there, 
Clasped  downward  where  she  silent  stands. 

XIII 

Once  more  she  lifts  her  lowly  face, 
And  slowly  lifts  her  large,  dark  eyes 
Of  wonder,  and  in  still  surprise 
She  looks  full  forward  in  her  place. 

She  looks  full  forward  on  the  air 
Above  the  tomb,  and  yet  below 
The  fruits  of  gold,  the  blooms  of  snow, 
As  looking — looking  anywhere. 

She  feels — she  knows  not  what  she  feels; 
It  is  not  terror,  is  not  fear. 
But  there  is  something  that  reveals 
A  presence  that  is  near  and  dear. 

She  does  not  let  her  eyes  fall  down, 
They  lift  against  the  far  profound: 
Against  the  blue  above  the  town 
Two  wide-winged  vultures  circle  round. 

Two  brown  birds  swim  above  the  sea,— 
Her  large  eyes  swim  as  dreamily, 
And  follow  far,  and  follow  high, 
Two  circling  black  specks  in  the  sky. 


i36 


A    SONG    OF   THE    SOUTH 


One  forward  step, — the  closing  door 
Creaks  out,  as  frightened  or  in  pain; 
Her  eyes  are  on  the  ground  again — 
Two  men  are  standing  close  before, 

"My  love,"  sighs   one,   ''niy  life,  niy 

all!" 

Her  lifted  foot  across  the  sill 
Sinks  down,  — and  all  things  are  so  still 
You  hear  the  orange-blossoins  fall. 

But  fear  comes  not  where  duty  is. 
And  purity  is  peace  and  rest; 
Her  cross  is  close  upon  her  breast, 
Her  two  hands  clasp  hard  hold  of  this. 

Her  two  hands  clasp  cross,  book,  and 

she 

Is  strong  in  tranquil  purity,  — 
Aye,  strong  as  Samson  when  he  laid 
His  two  hands  forth  and  bowed  and  prayed. 

One  at  her  left,  one  at  her  right, 
And  she  between  the  steps  upon,-- 
I  can  but  see  that  Syrian  night, 
The  women  there  at  early  dawn. 

XIV. 

The  sky  is  like  an  opal  sea, 
The  a;r  is  like  the  breath  of  kine; 
But  oh,  her  face  is  white,  and  she 
Leans  faint  to  see  a  lifted  sign, — 

To  see  two  hands  lift  up  and  wave,— 
To  see  a  face  so  white  with  woe, 
So  ghastly,  hollow,  white  as  though 
It  had  that  moment  left  the  grave. 

Her  sweet  face  at  that  ghostly  sign, 
Her  fair  face  in  her  weight  ot  hair, 
Is  like  a  white  dove  drowning  there,— 
A  white  dove  drowned  in  Tuscan  wine. 

He  tries  to  stand,  to  stand  erect; 
T  is  gold,  'tis  gold  that  holds  him  down! 


And  soul  and  body  both  must  drown,— 
Two  millstones  tied  about  his  neck. 

Now  once  again  his  piteous  face 
Is  raised  to  her  face  reaching  there 
He  prays  such  piteous  silent  prayer, 
As  prays  a  dying  man  for  grace. 

It  is  not  good  to  see  him  strain 
To  lift  his  hands,  to  gasp,  to  try 
To  speak.     His  parched  lips  are  so  dry 
Their  sight  is  as  a  living  pain, 

I  think  that  rich  man  down  in  hell 
Some  like  this  old  man  with  his  gold,  — 
To  gasp  and.  gasp  perpetual, 
Like  to  this  minute  I  have  told. 


XV. 

At  last  the  miser  cries  his  pain, — 
A  shrill,  wild  cry,  as  if  a  grave 
Just  op'd  its  stony  lips  and  gave 
One  sentence  forth,  then  closed  again. 


'"Twas 
night » 


twenty   years   last  night,  last 


His  lips  still  moved,  but  not  to  speak; 
His  outstretched  hands,  so  trembling  weak, 
Were  beggar's  hands  in  sorry  plight. 

His  face  upturned  to  hers;  his  lips 
Kept  talking  on,  but  gave  no  sound; 
His  feet  were  cloven  to  the  ground; 
Like  iron  hooks  his  finger  tips, 

"Aye,  twenty  years,"  she  sadly  sighed) 
"  1  promised  mother  every  year. 
That  I  would  pray  for  father  here, 
As  she  still  prayed  the  night  she  died: 

*'  To  pray  as  she  prayed,  fervently, 
As  she  had  promised  she  would  pray 
The  sad  night  that  he  turned  away, 
For  him,  wherever  he  might  be." 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SOUTH. 


Then  she  was  still;  then  sudden  she 
Let  fall  her  eyes,  and  so  outspake, 
As  if  her  very  heart  would  break, 
Her  proud  lips  trembling  piteously: 

"And  whether  he  comes  soon  or  late 
To  kneel  beside  this  nameless  grave, 
May  God  forgive  my  father's  hate 
As  I  forgive,  as  she  forgave!  " 

He  saw  the  stone;  he  understood, 
With  that  quick  knowledge  that  will  come 
Most  quick  when  men  are  made  most  dumb 
With  terror  that  stops  still  the  blood. 

And  then  a  blindness  slowly  fell 
On  soul  and  body;  but  his  hands 


Held  tight  his  bags,  two  iron  bands, 
As  if  to  bear  them  into  hell. 


He  sank  upon  the  nameless  stone 
With  oh!  such  sad,  such  piteous  moan 
As  never  man  might  seek  to  know 
From  man's  most  unforgiving  foe. 

He  sighed  at  last,  so  long,  so  deep, 
As  one  heart  breaking  in  one's  sleep, — 
One  long,  last,  weary,  willing  sigh, 
As  if  it  were  a  grace  to  die. 

And  then  his  hands,  like  loosened  bands, 
Hung  down,  hung  down,  on  either  side; 
His  hands  hung  down,  hung  open  wide: 
Wide  empty  hung  the  dead  man's  hands. 


I  had  long  aspired,  too  selfishly,  perhaps,  to  associate  my  name  in  song  with  the  father  of  waters,  and  finally, 
under  the  wing  of  Captain  James  Eades,  of  the  jetties,  gave  the  year  of  the  Cotton  Centennial  to  the  endeavor 
Frankly  I  was  not  equal  to  the  stupendous  task.  I  found  nothing  all  the  way  from  Saint  Paul  down,  down  to 
where  Eades  bitted  and  bridled  the  mighty  river's  mouth  in  the  Mexican  seas  that  I  could  master  or  lay  hand  upon. 
Yes,  majesty,  majesty,  majesty,  thousands  of  miles  of  majesty,  movement,  color;  corn,  cotton,  cane,  cane  and 
cotton  and  corn,  green,  gray  and  golden;  but  it  was  the  monotonous  majesty  of  eternity;  an  eternity  of  monotony. 

However  the  work  was  done  and  published  as  "The  Rhyme  of  the  Great  River."  Several  revisions  and 
publications  followed.  This  is  the  fifth.  Each  time  I  got  further  and  further  away  from  the  mighty  theme  until 
at  last  De  Soto's  river  is  no  longer  the  subject,  and  a  new  name  is  fit. 

But,  believe  me,  I  do  not  disparage  what  is  written  here,  as  it  now  stands,  shorn  of  half  its  verbiage.  Indeed, 
were  the  lesson  of  this  poem  not  needed  in  this  age  of  getting  and  getting,  it  would  find  no  place  here.  As  said 
elsewhere,  I  never  work  without  some  foundation  for  story,  character,  and  scene.  The  little  church  at  the  edge 
of  the  city— a  shrine  for  the  devout  who  wait  miraculous  cures— is,  as  well  as  the  environments,  described  literally. 

When  the  great  poet  comes  who  can  bend  these  mighty  waters  to  his  will,  and  make  melody  of  this  eternal 
majesty  which  awed  me  to  silence,  he  will  find  endless  material  for  his  story  in  this  brave,  cultured,  and  classic  old 
French  city  of  New  Orleans.  As  for  myself,  I  can  better  value  gold  in  the  rough  ore  than  the  glittering  coins. 
And,  too,  I  must  have  mountains,  mountains,  the  wilderness,  not  these  polished,  civilized  levels,  even  though 
never  so  stately  and  vast. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


139 


THE   SHIP    IN   THE   DESERT. 

A  wild,  wide  land  of  mysteries, 
Of  sea-salt  lakes  and  dried  up  seas, 
And  lonely  wells  and  pools;    a  land 
That  seems  so  like  dead  Palestine, 
Save  that  its  wastes  have  no  confine 
Till  push'd  against  the  levelled  skies. 
A  land  from  out  whose  depths  shall  rise 
The  new-time  prophets.     Yea,  the  land 
From  out  ivhose  awful  depths  shall  come, 
A  lowly  man,  with  dusty  feet, 
A  man  fresh  from  his  Maker's  hand, 
A  singer  singing  oversweet, 
A  charmer  charming  very  wise; 
And  then  all  men  shall  not  be  dumb. 
Nay,  not  be  dumb;  for  he  shall  say, 
"  Take  heed,  for  I  prepare  the  way 
For  weary  feet."    Lo!  from  this  land 
Of  Jordan  streams  and  dead  sea  sand, 
The  Christ  shall  come  when  next  the  race 
Of  man  shall  look  upon  His  face 


A  man  in  middle  Aridzone 
Stood  by  the  desert's  edge  alone, 
And    long    he    look'd,    and    lean'd    and 

peer'd, 

And  twiii'd  and  twirl'd  his  twist'd  beard, 
Beneath  a  black  and  slouchy  hat- 
Nay,  nay,  the  tale  is  not  of  that. 

A  skin-clad  trapper,  toe-a-tip, 
Stood  on  a  mountain  top;  and  he 
Look'd  long,  and  still,  and  eagerly. 
"  It  looks  so  like  some  lonesome  ship 

That  sails  this  ghostly,  lonely  sea, 

This  dried-up  desert  sea,"  said  he, 


"  These  tawny  sands  of  buried  seas"— 
Avaunt!  this  tale  is  not  of  these! 

A  chief  from  out  the  desert's  rim 
Rode  swift  as  twilight  swallows  swim, 
And  O!  his  supple  steed  was  fleet! 
About  his  breast  flapped  panther  skins, 
About  his  eager  flying  feet 
Flapp'd  beaded,  braided  moccasins: 
He  stopp'd,  stock  still,  as  still  as  stone, 
He  lean'd,  he  look'd,  there  glisten'd  bright, 
From  out  the  yellow,  yielding  sand, 
A  golden  cup  with  jewell'd  rim. 

He  lean'd  him  low,  he  reach'd  a  hand, 
He  caught  it  up,  he  gallop'd  on, 


140 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


He  turn'd  his  head,  he  saw  a  sight— 
His  panther-skins  flew  to  the  wind, 
He  rode  into  the  rim  of  night; 
The  dark,  the  desert  lay  behind; 
The  tawny  Ishmaelite  was  gone. 

He  reach'd  the  town,  and  there  held  up 
Above  his  head  a  jewel'd  cup. 
He  put  two  fingers  to  his  lip, 
He  whisper'd  wild,  he  stood  a-tip, 
And  lean'd  the  while  with  lifted  hand, 
And  said,  "A  ship  lies  yonder  dead," 
And  said,  "Such  things  lie  sown  in  sand 
In  yon  far  desert  dead  and  brown, 
Beyond   where    wave-wash'd    walls    look 

down, 

As  thick  as  stars  set  overhead." 
"  'Tis  from  that  desert  ship,"  they  said, 
"  That  sails  with  neither  sail  nor  breeze 
The  lonely  bed  of  dried-up  seas, — 
A  galleon  that  sank  below 
White  seas  ere  Eed  men  drew  the  bow." 

By  Arizona's  sea  of  sand 
Some  bearded  miners,  gray  and  old, 
And  resolute  in  search  of  gold, 
Sat  down  to  tap  the  savage  land. 
A  miner  stood  beside  the  mine, 
He  pull'd  his  beard,  then  looked  away 
Across  the  level  sea  of  sand, 
Beneath  his  broad  and  hairy  hand, 
A  hand  as  hard  as  knots  of  pine. 
"  It  looks  so  like  a  sea,"  said  he. 
He  pull'd  his  beard,  and  he  did  say, 
11  It  looks  just  like  a  dried-up  sea." 
Again  he  pull'd  that  beard  of  his, 
But  said  no  other  thing  than  this. 

A  stalwart  miner  dealt  a  stroke, 
And  struck  a  buried  beam  of  oak. 
The  miner  twisted,  twirl'd  his  beard, 
Lean'd  on  his  pick-ax  as  he  spoke: 
"  'Tis  that  same  long-lost  ship,"  he  said, 
"Some  laden  ship  of  Solomon 
That  sail'd  these  lonesome  seas  upon 


In  search  of  Ophir's  mine,  ah  me! 
That  sail'd  this  dried-up  desert  sea." 

II. 

Now  this  the  tale.     Along  the  wide 
Missouri's  stream  some  silent  braves, 
That  stole  along  the  farther  side 
Through  sweeping  wood  that  swept  the 

waves 

Like  long  arms  reach'd  across  the  tide, 
Kept  watch  and  every  foe  defied. 

A  low,  black  boat  that  hugg'd  the  shores, 
An  ugly  boat,  an  ugly  crew, 
Thick-lipp'd  and  woolly-headed  slaves, 
That  bow'd,  and  bent  the  white-ash  oars, 
That  cleft  the  murky  waters  through, 
Slow  climb'd  the  swift  Missouri's  waves. 

A  grand  old  Neptune  in  the  prow, 
Gray-hair'd,  and  white  with  touch  of  time, 
Yet  strong  as  in  his  middle  prime, 
Stood  up,  turn'd  suddenly,  look'd  back 
Along  his  low  boat's  wrinkled  track, 
Then  drew  his  mantle  tight,  and  now 
He  sat  all  silently.     Beside 
The  grim  old  sea-king  sat  his  bride, 
A  sun  laud  blossom,  rudely  torn 
From  tropic  forests  to  be  worn 
Above  as  stern  a  breast  as  e'er 
Stood  king  at  sea,  or  anywhere. 

Another  boat  with  other  crew 
Came  swift  and  cautious  in  her  track, 
And  now  shot  shoreward,  now  shot  back, 
And  now  sat  rocking  fro  and  to, 
But  never  once  lost  sight  of  her. 
Tall,  sunburnt,  southern  men  were  these 
From  isles  of  blue  Carribbean  seas, 
And  one,  that  woman's  worshiper, 
Who  look'd  on  her,  and  loved  but  her. 

And  one,  that  one,  was  wild  as  seas 
That  wash  the  far,  dark  Oregon. 
And  one,  that  one,  had  eyes  to  teach 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 


The  art  of  love,  and  tongue  to  preach 
Life's  hard  and  sober  homilies, 
While  he  stood  leaning,  urging  on. 


II. 

Pursuer  and  pursued.     And  who 
Are  these  that  make  the  sable  crew; 
These  mighty  Titans,  black  and  nude, 
Who  dare  this  Ked  man's  solitude  ? 

And  who  is  he  that  leads  them  here, 
And  breaks  the  hush  of  wave  and  wood? 
Comes  he  for  evil  or  for  good? 
Brave  Jesuit  or  bold  buccaneer? 

Nay,  these  be  idle  themes.    Let  pass. 
These  be  but  men.     We  may  forget 
The  wild  sea-king,  the  tawny  brave, 
The  frowning  wold,  the  woody  shore, 
The  tall-built,  sunburnt  man  of  Mars. 
But  what  and  who  was  she,  the  fair? 
The  fairest  face  that  ever  yet 
Look'd  in  a  wave  as  in  a  glass; 
That  look'd,  as  look  the  still,  far  stars, 
So  woman-like,  into  the  wave 
To  contemplate  their  beauty  there  ? 

I  only  saw  her,  heard  the  sound 
Of  murky  waters  gurgling  round 
In  counter-currents  from  the  shore, 
But  heard  the  long,  strong  stroke  of  oar 
Against  the  water  gray  and  vast; 
I  only  saw  her  as  she  pass'd — 
A  great,  sad  beauty,  in  whose  eyes 
Lay  all  the  peace  of  Paradise. 

O  you  had  loved  her  sitting  there, 
Half  hidden  in  her  loosen'd  hair; 
Yea,  loved  her  for  her  large  dark  eyes, 
Her  push'd  out  mouth,  her  mute  surprise — 
Her  mouth!  'twas  Egypt's  mouth  of  old, 
Push'd  out  and  pouting  full  and  bold 
With  simple  beauty  where  she  sat. 
Why,  you  had  said,  on  seeing  her, 


This  creature  comes  from  out  the  dim, 
Far  centuries,  beyond  the  rim 
Of  time's  remotest  reach  or  stir; 
And  he  who  wrought  Semiramis 
And  shaped  the  Sibyls,  seeing  this, 
Had  kneeled  and  made  a  shrine  thereat, 
And  all  his  life  had  worshipp'd  her. 

IV. 

The  black  men  bow'd,    the  long  oars 

bent, 

They  struck  as  if  for  sweet  life's  sake, 
And  one  look'd  back,  but  no  man  spake, 
And  all  wills  bent  to  one  intent. 
On,  through  the  golden  fringe  of  day 
Into  the  deep,  dark  night,  away 
And  up  the  wave  'mid  walls  of  wood 
They  cleft,  they  climb'd,  they  bow'd,  they 

bent, 

But  one  stood  tall,  and  restless  stood, 
And  one  sat  still  all  night,  all  day, 
And  gazed  in  helpless  wonderment. 

Her  hair  pour'd  down  like  darkling  wine, 
The  black  men  lean'd  a  sullen  line, 
The  bent  oars  kept  a  steady  song, 
And  all  the  beams  of  bright  sunshine 
That  touch'd  the  waters  wild  and  strong, 
Fell  drifting  down  and  out  of  sight 
Like  fallen  leaves,  and  it  was  night. 

And  night  and  day,  and  many  days 
They  climb'd  the  sullen,  dark  gray  tide. 
And  sho  sat  silent  at  his  side, 
And  he  sat  turning  many  ways; 
Sat  watching  for  his  wily  foe. 
At  last  he  baffled  him.    And  yet 
His  brow  gloom 'd  dark,  his  lips  were  set; 
He  lean'd,  he  peer'd  through  boughs,  as 

though 

From  heart  of  forests  deep  and  dim 
Grim  shapes  might  come  confronting  him. 

A  stern,  uncommon  man  was  he, 
Broad-shoulder'd,  as  of  Gothic  form, 


I42 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


Strong-built,  and  hoary  like  a  sea; 

A  high  sea  broken  tip  by  storm. 

His  face  was  brown  and  over-wrought 

By  seams  and  shadows  born  of  thought, 

Not  over-gentle.     And  his  eyes, 

Bold,  restless,  resolute  and  deep, 

Too  deep  to  flow  like  shallow  fount 

Of  common  men  where  waters  mount; — 

Fierce,  lumined  eyes,  where  flames  might 

rise 

Instead  of  flood,  and  flash  and  sweep- 
Strange  eyes,  that  look'd  unsatisfied 
With  all  things  fair  or  otherwise; 
As  if  bis  inmost  soul  had  cried 
All  time  for  something  yet  unseen, 
Some  long-desired  thing  denied. 


v. 

Below  the  overhanging  boughs 
The  oars  lay  idle  at  the  last; 
Yet  long  he  look'd  for  hostile  prows 
From  out  the  wood  and  down  the  stream. 
They  came  not,  and  he  came  to  dream 
Pursuit  abandon'd,  danger  past. 


He  fell'd  the  oak,  he  built  a  home 
Of  new-hewn  wood  with  busy  hand, 
And  said,  "My  wanderings  are  told," 
And  said,  "  No  more  by  sea,  by  land, 
Shall  I  break  rest,  or  drift,  or  roam, 
For  I  am  worn,  and  I  grow  old." 


And  there,  beside  that  surging  tide, 
Where  gray  waves  meet,  and  wheel,  and 

strike, 

The  man  sat  down  as  satisfied 
To  sit  and  rest  unto  the  end; 
As  if  the  strong  man  here  had  found 
A  sort  of  brother  in  this  sea, — 
This  surging,  sounding  majesty, 
Of  troubled  water,  so  profound, 
So  sullen,  strong,  and  lion-like, 
So  lawless  in  its  every  round. 


Hast  seen  Missouri  cleave  the  wood 
In  sounding  whirlpools  to  the  sea? 
What  soul  hath  known  such  majesty? 
What  man  stood  by  and  understood? 

VI. 

Now  long  the  long  oars  idle  lay. 
The  cabin's  smoke  came  forth  and  curl'd 
Right  lazily  from  river  brake, 
And  Time  went  by  the  other  way. 
And  who  was  she,  the  strong  man's  pride, 
This  one  fair  woman  of  his  world, 
A  captive?    Bride,  or  not  a  bride? 
Her  eyes,  men  say,  grew  sad  and  dim 
With  watching  from  the  river's  rim, 
As  waiting  for  some  face  denied. 

Yea,  who  was  she?  none  ever  knew. 
The  great,  strong  river  swept  around 
The  cabins  nestled  in  its  bend, 
But  kept  its  secrets.     Wild  birds  flew 
In  bevies  by.     The  Hack  men  found 
Diversion  in  the  chase:  and  wide 
Old  Morgan  ranged  the  wood,  nor  friend 
Nor  foeman  ever  sougiit  his  side, 
Or  shared  his  forests  deep  and  dim, 
Or  cross'd  his  path  or  question'd  him. 

He  stood  as  one  who  found  and  named 
The  middle  world.     What  visions  flamed 
Athwart  the  west!     What  prophecies 
Were  his,  the  gray  old  man,  that  day 
Who  stood  alone  and  look'd  away,  — 
Awest  from  out  the  waving  trees, 
Against  the  utter  sundown  seas. 

Alone  ofttime  beside  the  stream 
He  stood  and  gazed  as  in  a  dream, — 
As  if  he  knew  a  life  unknown 
To  those  who  knew  him  thus  alone. 
His  eyes  were  gray  and  overborne 
By  shaggy  brows,  his  strength  was  shorn, 
Yet  still  he  ever  gazed  awest, 
As  one  that  would  not,  could  not  rest. 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 


And  had  he  fled  with  bloody  hand? 
Or  had  he  loved  some  Helen  fair, 
Aiid  battling  lost  both  land  and  town? 
Say,  did  he  see  his  walls  go  down, 
Then  choose  from  all  his  treasures  there 
This  one,  and  seek  some  other  land  ? 

VII. 

The  squirrels  chatter'd  in  the  leaves, 
The  turkeys  call'd  from  pawpaw  wood, 
The  deer  with  lifted  nostrils  stood, 
'Mid  climbing  blossoms  sweet  with  bee, 
'Neath  snow-white  rose  of  Cherokee. 

Then  frosts  hung  ices  on  the  eaves, 
Then  cushion  snows  possess'd  the  ground, 
And  so  the  seasons  kept  their  round; 
Yet  still  old  Morgan  went  and  came 
From  cabin  door  through  forest  dim, 
Through  wold  of  snows,  through  wood  of 

flame, 

Through  golden  Indian-summer  days, 
Hung  red  with  soft  September  haze, 
And  no  man  cross'd  or  questioned  him. 

Nay,  there  was  that  in  his  stern  air 
That  held  e'en  these  rude  men  aloof; 
None  came  to  share  the  broad-built  roof 
That  rose  so  fortress-like  beside 
The  angry,  rushing,  sullen  tide, 
And  only  black  men  gather'd  there, 
The  old  man's  slaves  in  dull  content, 
Black,  silent,  and  obedient. 

Then  men  push'd  westward  through  his 

wood, 

His  wild  beasts  fled,  and  now  he  stood 
Confronting  men.     He  had  endear 'd 
No  man,  but  still  he  went  and  came 
Apart,  and  shook  his  beard  and  strode 
His  ways  alone,  and  bore  his  load, 
If  load  it  were,  apart,  alone. 
Then  men  grew  busy  with  a  name 
That  no  man  loved,  that  many  fear'd, 


And  rude  men  stoop'd,  and  cast  a  stone, 
As  at  some  statue  overthrown. 

Some  said,  a  stolen  bride  was  she, 
And  that  her  lover  from  the  sea 
Lay  waiting  for  his  chosen  wife, 
And  that  a  day  of  reckoning 
Lay  waiting  for  this  grizzled  king. 

Some  said  that  looking  from  her  place 
A  love  would  sometimes  light  her  face, 
As  if  sweet  recollections  stirr'd 
Like  far,  sweet  songs  that  come  to  ns, 
So  soft,  so  sweet,  they  are  not  heard, 
So  far,  so  faint,  they  fill  the  air, 
A  fragrance  falling  anywhere. 

So,  wasting  all  her  summer  years 
That  utter'd  only  through  her  tears, 
The  seasons  went,  and  still  she  stood 
For  ever  watching  down  the  wood. 

Yet  in  her  heart  there  held  a  strife 
With  all  this  wasting  of  sweet  life, 
That  none  who  have  not  lived  and  died — 
Held  up  the  two  hands  crucified 
Between  two  ways — can  understand. 

Men  went  and  came,  and  still  she  stood 
In  silence  watching  down  the  wood — 
Adown  the  wood  beyond  the  land, 
Her  hollow  face  upon  her  hand, 
Her  black,  abundant  hair  all  down 
About  her  loose,  ungather'd  gown. 

And  what  her  thought  ?  her  life  unsaid  ? 
Was  it  of  love?  of  hate?  of  him, 
The  tall,  dark  Southerner?    Her  head 
Bow'd  down.     The  day  fell  dim 
Upon  her  eyes.     She  bowed,  she  slept. 
She  waken' d  then,  and  waking  wept. 

VIII. 

The  black-eyed  bushy  squirrels  ran 
Like     shadows     scattered     through     the 
boughs; 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


The  gallant  robin  chirp' d  his  vows, 
The  far-off  pheasant  thrumrn'd  his  fan, 
A  thousand  blackbirds  kept  on  wing 
In  walnut-top,  and  it  was  Spring. 

Old  Morgan  sat  his  cabin  door, 
And  one  sal  watching  as  of  yore, 
But  why  turn'd  Morgan's  face  as  white 
As  his  white  beard?    A  bird  aflight, 
A  squirrel  peering  through  the  trees, 
Saw  some  one  silent  steal  away 
Like  darkness  from  the  face  of  day, 
Saw  two  black  eyes  look  back,  and  these 
Saw  her  hand  beckon  through  the  trees. 

Ay!  they  have  come,  the  sun-brown'd 

men, 

To  beard  old  Morgan  in  his  den. 
It  matters  little  who  they  are, 
These  silent  men  from  isles  afar; 
And  truly  no  one  cares  or  knows 
What  be  their  merit  or  demand; 
It  is  enough  for  this  rude  land — 
At  least,  it  is  enough  for  those, 
The  loud  of  tongue  and  rude  of  hand — 
To  know  that  they  are  Morgan's  foes. 

Proud  Morgan!    More  than  tongue  can 

tell 

He  loved  that  woman  watching  there, 
That  stood  in  her  dark  storm  of  hair, 
That  stood  and  dream'd  as  in  a  spell, 
And  look'd  so  fix'd  and  far  away; 
And  who  that  loveth  woman  well, 
Is  wholly  bad?  be  who  he  may. 


IX. 

Ay!  we  have  seen  these  Southern  men, 
These  sun-brown'd  men  from  island  shore, 
In  this  same  land,  and  long  before. 
They  do  not  seem  so  lithe  as  then, 
They  do  not  look  so  tall,  and  they 
Seem  not  so  many  as  of  old. 
But  that  same  resolute  and  bold 


Expression  of  unbridled  will, 
That  even  Time  must  half  obey, 
Is  with  them  and  is  of  them  still. 

They  do  not  counsel  the  decree 
Of  court  or  council,  where  they  drew 
Their  breath,  nor  law  nor  order  knew, 
Save  but  the  strong  hand  of  the  strong; 
Where  each  stood  up,  avenged  his  wrong, 
Or  sought  his  death  all  silently. 
They  watch  along  the  wave  and  wood, 
They  heed,  but  haste  not.     Their  estate, 
Whate'er  it  be,  can  bide  and  wait, 
Be  it  open  ill  or  hidden  good. 
No  law  for  them!    For  they  have  stood 
With  steel,  and  writ  their  rights  in  blood; 
And  now,  whatever  't  is  they  seek, 
Whatever  be  their  dark  demand, 
Why,  they  will  make  it,  hand  to  hand, 
Take  time  and  patience:  Greek  to  Greek. 


x. 

Like  blown  and  snowy  wintry  pine, 
Old  Morgan  stoop'd  his  head  and  pass'd 
Within  his  cabin  door.     He  cast 
A  great  arm  out  to  men,  made  sign, 
Then  turn'd  to  Sybal;  stood  beside 
A  time,  then  turn'd  and  strode  the  floor, 
Stopp'd  short,  breathed  sharp,  threw  wide 

the  door, 

Then  gazed  beyond  the  murky  tide, 
Past  where  the  forky  peaks  divide. 

He  took  his  beard  in  his  right  hand, 
Then  slowly  shook  his  grizzled  head 
And  trembled,  but  no  word  he  said. 
His  thought   was   something  more  than 

pain; 

Upon  the  seas,  upon  the  land 
He  knew  he  should  not  rest  again. 

He  turn'd  to  her;  and  then  once  more 
Quick  turn'd,  and  through  the  oaken  door 
He  sudden  pointed  to  the  west. 
His  eye  resumed  its  old  command, 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


The  conversation  of  his  hand 

It  was  enough;  she  knew  the  rest. 

He  turn'd,  he  stoop'd,  and  smooth'd  her 

hair, 

As  if  to  smooth  away  the  care 
From  his  great  heart,  with  his  left  hand. 
His  right  hand  hitch'd  the  pistol  round 
That  dangled  at  his  belt.     The  sound 
Of  steel  to  him  was  melody 
More  sweet  than  any  song  of  sea. 
He  touch'd  his  pistol,  push'd  his  lips, 
Then  tapp'd  it  with  his  finger  tips, 
And  toy'd  with  it  as  harper's  hand 
Seeks  out  the  chords  when  he  is  sad 
And  purposeless.     At  last  he  had 
Resolved.     In  haste  he  touch'd  her  hair, 
Made  sign  she  should  arise— prepare 
For  some  long  journey,  then  again 
He  look'd  awest  toward  the  plain; 
Against  the  land  of  boundless  space, 
The  land  of  silences,  the  land 
Of  shoreless  deserts  sown  with  sand, 
Where  Desolation's  dwelling  is; 
The  laud  where,  wondering,  you  say, 
What  dried-up  shoreless  sea  is  this  ? 
Where,  wandering,  from  day  to  day 
You  say,  To-morrow  sure  we  come 
To  rest  in  some  cool  resting  place, 
And  yet  you  journey  on  through  space 
While  seasons  pass,  and  are  struck  dumb 
With  marvel  at  the  distances. 

Yea,  he  would  go.     Go  utterly 
Away,  and  from  all  living  kind; 
Pierce  through  the  distances,  and  find 
New  lands.     He  had  outlived  his  race. 
He  stood  like  some  eternal  tree 
That  tops  remote  Yosemite, 
And  cannot  fall.     He  turn'd  his  face 
Again  and  contemplated  space. 

And  then  he  raised  his  hand  to  vex 
His  beard,  stood  still,  and  there  fell  down 
Great  drops  from  some  unfrequent  spring, 


And   streak'd  his   chanell'd   cheeks  sun- 

brown, 

And  ran  uncheck'd,  as  one  who  recks 
Nor  joy,  nor  tears,  nor  anything. 

And  then,  his  broad  breast  heaving  deep, 
Like  some  dark  sea  in  troubled  sleep, 
Blown  round  with   groaning   ships   and 

wrecks, 

He  sudden  roused  himself,  and  stood 
With  all  the  strength  of  his  stern  mood, 
Then  call'd  his  men,  and  bade  them  go 
And  bring    black  steeds    with   banner'd 

necks, 
And  strong,  like  burly  buffalo. 

XI. 

The  bronzen,  stolid,  still,  black  men 
Their  black-maned  horses  silent  drew 
Through  solemn    wood.      One  midnight 

when 
The  curl'd  moon   tipp'd   her   horn,    and 

threw 

A  black  oak's  shadow  slant  across 
A  low  mound  hid  in  leaves  and  moss, 
Old  Morgan  cautious  came  and  drew 
From  out  the  ground,  as  from  a  grave, 
Great  bags,  all  copper-bound  and  old, 
And  fill'd,  men  say,  with  pirates'  gold. 
And  then  they,  silent  as  a  dream, 
In  long  black  shadow  crossed  the  stream. 

XII. 

And  all  was  life  at  morn,  but  one, 
The  tall  old  sea-king,  grim  and  gray, 
Look'd  back  to  where  his  cabins  lay, 
And  seern'd  to  hesitate.     He  rose 
At  last,  as  from  his  dream's  repose, 
From  rest  that  counterfeited  rest, 
And  set  his  blown  beard  to  the  west; 
And  rode  against  the  setting  sun, 
Far  up  the  levels  vast  and  dun. 

His  steeds  were  steady,  strong  and  fleet, 
The  best  in  all  the  wide  west  land, 


146 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


Thei»  manes  were  in  the  air,  their  feet 
Seem'd  scarce  to  touch  the  flying  sand. 

They  rode  like  men  gone  mad,  they  fled 
All  day  and  many  days  they  ran, 
And  in  the  rear  a  gray  old  man 
Kept  watch,  and  ever  turn'd  his  head 
Half  eager  and  half  angry,  back 
Along  their  dusty  desert  track. 

And  she  look'd  back,  but  no  man  spoke, 
They  rode,  they  swallowed  up  the  plain; 
The  sun  sank  low,  he  look'd  again, 
With  lifted  hand  and  shaded  eyes. 
Then  far,  afar,  he  saw  uprise, 
As  if  from  giant's  stride  or  stroke, 
Dun  dust,  like  puffs  of  battle-smoke. 

He  turn'd,  his  left   hand  clutched    the 

rein, 

He  struck  hard  west  his  high  right  hand, 
His  limbs  were  like  the  limbs  of  oak; 
All  knew  too  well  the  man's  command. 
On,  on  they  spurred,  they  plunged  again, 
And  one  look'd  back,  but  no  man  spoke. 

They  climb'd  the  rock-built  breasts  of 

earth, 

The  Titan-fronted,  blowy  steeps 
That  cradled  Time.    Where  freedom  keeps 
Her  flag  of  bright,  blown  stars  unfurl'd, 
They  climbed  and  climbed.    They  saw  the 

birth 

Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  world; 
Again  they  gazed;   they  saw  the  face 
Of  God,  and  named  it  boundless  space. 

And  they  descended  and  did  roam 
Through  levell'd  distances  set  round 
By  room.     They  saw  the  Silences 
Move  by  and  beckon;  saw  the  forms, 
The  very  beards,  of  burly  storms, 
And  heard  them  talk  like  sounding  seas. 
On    unnamed    heights,   bleak-blown  and 
browix. 


And  torn-like  battlements  of  Mars, 
They  saw  the  darknesses  come  down, 
Like  curtains  loosen'd  from  the  dome 
Of  God's  cathedral,  built  of  stars. 

They  pitch 'd  the  tent  where  rivers  run 
All  foaming  to  the  west,  and  rush 
As  if  to  drown  the  falling  sun. 
They  saw  the  snowy  mountains  roll'd, 
And  heaved  along  the  nameless  lands 
Like  mighty  billows;  saw  the  gold 
Of  awful  sunsets;  felt  the  hush 
Of  heaven  when  the  day  sat  down, 
And  drew  about  his  mantle  brown, 
And  hid  his  face  in  dusky  hands. 

The  long  and  lonesome  nights!  the  tent 
That  nestled  soft  in  sweep  of  grass, 
The  hills  against  the  firmament 
Where  scarce  the  moving  moon  could  pass; 
The  cautious  camp,  the  smother'd  light, 
The  silent  sentinel  at  night! 

The  wild  beasts  howling  from  the  hill; 
The  savage  prowling  swift  and  still, 
And  bended  as  a  bow  is  bent. 
The  arrow  sent;  the  arrow  spent 
And  buried  in  its  bloody  place; 
The  dead  man  lying  on  his  face! 

The  clouds  of  dust,  their  cloud  by  day; 
Their  pillar  of  unfailing  fire 
The  far  North  Star.   And  high,  and  higher, 
They  climb'd  so  high  it  seemed  eftsoon 
That  they  must  face  the  falling  moon, 
That  like  some  flame-lit  ruin  lay 
High  built  before  their  weary  way. 

They  learn'd  to  read  the  sign  of  storms, 
The  moon's  wide  circles,  sunset  bars, 
And  storm-provoking  blood  and  flame; 
And,  like  the  Chaldean  shepherds,  came 
At  night  to  name  the  moving  stars. 
In  heaven's  face  they  pictured  forms 
Of  beasts,  of  fishes  of  the  sea. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


I47 


They  watch'd  the  Great  Bear  wearily 
Rise  up  and  drag  his  clinking  chain 
Of  stars  around  the  starry  main 

XIII. 

And  why  did  these  worn,  sun-burnt  men 
Let  Morgan  gain  the  plain,  and  then 
Pursue  him  ever  where  he  fled? 
Some  say  their  leader  sought  but  her; 
Unlike  each  swarthy  follower. 
Some  say  they  sought  his  gold  alone, 
And  fear'd  to  make  their  quarrel  known 
Lest  it  should  keep  its  secret  bed; 
Some  say  they  thought  to  best  prevail 
And  conquer  with  united  hands 
Alone  upon  the  lonesome  sands; 
Some  say  they  had  as  much  to  dread; 
Some  say — but  I  must  tell  my  tale. 

And  still  old  Morgan  sought  the  west; 
The  sea,  the  utmost  sea,  and  rest. 
He  climb'd,  descended,  clirnb'd  again, 
Until  pursuit  seemed  all  in  vain; 
Until  they  left  him  all  alone, 
As  unpursued  and  as  unknown, 
As  some  lost  ship  upon  the  main. 

O  there  was  grandeur  in  his  air, 
An  old-time  splendor  in  his  eye, 
When  he  had  climb'd  at  last  the  high 
And  rock-built  bastions  of  the  plain, 
Thrown  back  his  beard  and  blown  white 

hair, 
And  halting  turn'd  to  look  again. 

Dismounting  in  his  lofty  place, 
He  look'd  far  down  the  fading  plain 
For  his  pursuers,  but  in  vain. 
Yea,  he  was  glad.     Across  his  face 
A  careless  smile  was  seen  to  play, 
The  first  for  many  a  stormy  day. 

He  turn'd  to  Sybal,  dark,  yet  fair 
As  some  sad  twilight;  touch 'd  her  hair, 
Stoop'd  low,  and  kiss'd  her  gently  there, 


Then  silent  held  her  to  his  breast; 
Then  waved  command  to  his  black  men, 
Look'd  east,  then  mounted  slow   and  then 
Led  leisurely  against  the  west. 

And  why  should  he  who  dared  to  die, 
Who  more  than  once  with  hissing  breath 
Had  set  his  teeth  and  pra^'d  for  death? 
Why  fled  these  men,  or  wherefore  fly 
Before  them  now  ?  why  not  defy  ? 

His  midnight  men  were  strong  and  true, 
And  not  unused  to  strife,  and  knew 
The  masonry  of  steel  right  well, 
And  all  such  signs  that  lead  to  hell. 

It  might  have    been    his    youth    had 

wrought 

Some  wrongs  his  years  would  now  repair, 
That  made  him  fly  and  still  forbear; 
It  might  have  been  he  only  sought 
To  lead  them  to  some  fatal  snare, 
And  let  them  die  by  piecemeal  there. 

I  only  know  it  was  not  fear 
Of  any  man  or  any  thing 
That  death  in  any  shape  might  bring. 
It  might  have  been  some  lofty  sense 
Of  his  own  truth  and  innocence, 
And  virtues  lofty  and  severe — 
Nay,  nay!  what  room  for  reasons  here? 

And  now  they  pierced  a  fringe  of  trees 
That  bound  a  mountain's  brow  like  bay. 
Sweet  through  the  fragrant  boughs  a  breeze 
Blew  salt-flood  freshness.     Far  away, 
From  mountain  brow  to  desert  base 
Lay  chaos,  space;  unbounded  space. 

The  black  men  cried,  "The  sea!"  They 

bow'd 

Black,  woolly  heads  in  hard  black  hands. 
They  wept  for  joy.    They  laugh'd,  they 

broke 

The  silence  of  an  age,  and  spoke 
Of  rest  at  last;  and,  grouped  in  bands, 


148 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


They  threw  their  long  black  arms  about 
Each  other's  necks,  and  laugh'd  aloud, 
Then  wept  again  with  laugh  and  shout. 

Yet  Morgan  spake  no  word,  but  led 
His  baud  with  oft-averted  head 
Right  through  the  cooling  trees,  till  he 
Stood  out  upon  the  lofty  brow 
And  mighty  mountain  wall.     And  now 
The  men  who  shouted,  "  Lo,  the  sea!  " 
Eode  in  the  sun;  sad,  silently, 
Rode  in  the  sun,  and  look'd  below. 
They  look'd  but  once,  then  look'd  away, 
Then  look'd  each  other  in  the  face. 
They  could  not  lift  their  brows,  nor  say, 
But  held  their  heads,  nor  spake,  for  lo! 
Nor  sea,  nor  voice  of  sea,  nor  breath 
Of  sea,  but  only  sand  and  death, 
The  dread  mirage,  the  fiend  of  space! 

XIV. 

Old  Morgan  eyed  his  men,  look'd  back 
Against  the  groves  of  tamarack, 
Then  tapp'd  his  stirrup  foot,  and  stray'd 
His  broad  left  hand  along  the  mane 
Of  his  strong  steed,  and  careless  play'd 
His  fingers  through  the  silken  skein. 

And  then  he  spurr'd  him  to  her  side, 
And  reach'd  his  hand  and  leaning  wide, 
He  smiling  push'd  her  falling  hair 
Back  from  her  brow,  and  kiss'd  her  there. 
Yea,  touch'd  her  softly,  as  if  she 
Had  been  some  priceless,  tender  flower; 
Yet  touch'd  her  as  one  taking  leave 
Of  his  one  love  in  lofty  tower 
Before  descending  to  the  sea 
Of  battle  on  his  battle  eve. 

A  distant  shout!  quick  oaths!  alarms! 
The  black  men  start,  turn  suddenly, 
Stand  in  the  stirrup,  clutch  their  arms, 
And  bare  bright  arms  all  instantly. 
But  he,  he  slowly  turns,  and  he 
Looks  all  his  full  soul  in  her  face. 


He  does  not  shout,  he  does  not  say, 
But  sits  serenely  in  his  place 
A  time,  then  slowly  turns,  looks  back 
Between  the  trim-boughed  tamarack, 
And  up  the  winding  mountain  way, 
To  where  the  long,  strong  grasses  lay, 
And  there  they  came,  hot  on  his  track! 

He  raised  his  glass  in  his  two  hands, 
Then  in  his  left  hand  let  it  fall, 
Then  seem'd  to  count  his  fingers  o'er, 
Then  reached  his  glass,  waved  his  com 
mands, 

Then  tapped  his  stirrup  as  before, 
Stood  in  the  stirrup  stern  and  tall, 
Then  ran  a  hand  along  the  mane 
Half -nervous  like,  and  that  was  all. 

And   then   he  turn'd,  and  smiled  half 

sad, 

Half  desperate,  then  hitch'd  his  steel; 
Then  all  his  stormy  presence  had, 
As  if  he  kept  once  more  his  keel, 
On  listless  seas  where  breakers  reel. 

At  last  he  tossed  his  iron  hand 
Above  the  deep,  steep  desert  space, 
Above  the  burning  seas  of  sand, 
And  look'd  his  black  men  in  the  face. 
They  spake  not,  nor  look'd  back  again, 
They  struck  the  heel,  they  clutch'd  the 

rein, 

And  down  'the  darkling  plunging  steep 
They  dropp'd  into  the  dried-up  deep. 

Below!     It  seem'd  a  league  below, 
The  black  men  rode,  and  she  rode  well, 
Against  the  gleaming,  sheening  haze 
That  shone  like  some  vast  sea  ablaze — 
That  seem'd  to  gleam,  to  glint,  to  glow, 
As  if  it  mark'd  the  shores  of  hell. 

Then  Morgan  reined  alone,  look'd  back 
From  off  the  high  wall  where  he  stood, 
And  watch'd  his  fierce  approaching  foe. 
He  saw  him  creep  along  his  track, 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


149 


Saw  him  descending  from  the  wood, 
And  smiled  to  see  how  worn  and  slow. 

And  Morgan  heard  his  oath  and  shout, 
And  Morgan  turned  his  head  once  more, 
And  wheel'd  his  stout  steed  short  about, 
Then  seem'd  to  count  their  numbers  o'er. 
And  then  his  right  hand  touch'd  his  steel, 
And  then  he  tapp'd  his  iron  heel, 
And  seemed  to   fight   with  thought.     At 

last 

As  if  the  final  die  was  cast, 
And  cast  as  carelessly  as  one 
Would  toss  a  white  coin  in  the  sun, 
He  touched  his  rein  once  more,  and  then 
His  right  hand  laid  with  idle  heed 
Along  the  toss'd  mane  of  his  steed. 

Pursuer  and  pursued!  who  knows 
The  why  he  left  the  breezy  pine, 
The  fragrant  tamarack  and  vine, 
Ked  rose  and  precious  yellow  rose! 
Nay,  Vasques  held  the  vantage  ground 
Above  him  by  the  wooded  steep, 
And  right  nor  left  no  passage  lay, 
And  there  was  left  him  but  that  way,— 
The  way  through  blood,  or  to  the  deep 
And  lonesome  deserts  far  profound, 
That  knew  not  sight  of  man,  nor  sound. 

Hot  Vasques  reined  upon  the  rim, 
High,  bold,  and  fierce  with  crag  and  spire. 
He  saw  a  far  gray  eagle  swim, 
He  saw  a  black  hawk  wheel,  retire, 
And  shun  that  desert's  burning  breath 
As  shunning  something  more  than  death. 

Ah,  then  he  paused,  turn'd,   shook  his 

head. 

"  And  shall  we  turn  aside,"  he  said, 
1 '  Or  dare  this  Death  ?"  The  men  stood  still 
As  leaning  on  his  sterner  will. 
And  then  he  stopp'd  and  turn'd  again, 
And  held  his  broad  hand  to  his  brow, 
And  look'd  intent  and  eagerly. 


The  far  white  levels  of  the  plain 
Flash'd  back  like  billows.    Even  now 
He  thought  he  saw  rise  up  'mid  sea, 
'Mid  space,  'mid  wastes,  'mid  nothingness 
A  ship  becalm 'd  as  in  distress. 

The  dim  sign  pass'd  as  suddenly, 
And  then  his  eager  eyes  grew  dazed, — 
He  brought  his  two  hands  to  his  face. 
Again  he  raised  his  head,  and  gazed 
With  flashing  eyes  and  visage  fierce 
Far  out,  and  resolute  to  pierce 
The  far,  far,  faint  receding  reach 
Of  space  and  touch  its  farther  beach. 
He  saw  but  space,  unbounded  space; 
Eternal  space  and  nothingness. 

Then  all  wax'd  anger'd  as  they  gazed 
Far  out  upon  the  shoreless  land, 
And  clench' d  their  doubled   hands   and 

raised 

Their  long  bare  arms,  but  utter'd  not. 
At  last  one  rode  from  out  the  band, 
And  raised  his  arm,  push'd  back  his  sleeve, 
Push'd  bare  his  arm,  rode  up  and  down, 
With  hat  push'd  back.     Then  flush'd  and 

hot 
He  shot  sharp  oaths  like  cannon  shot. 

Then  Vasques  was  resolved;  his  form 
Seem'd    like  a  pine    blown  rampt    with 

storm. 

He  clutch'd  his  rein,  drove  spur,  and  then 
Turn'd  sharp  and  savage  to  his  men, 
And  then  led  boldly  down  the  way 
To  night  that  knows  not  night  or  day. 

XV. 

How  broken  plunged  the  steep  descent! 
How  barren!  Desolate,  and  rent 
By  earthquake's  shock,  the  land  lay  dead, 
With  dust  and  ashes  on  its  head. 

'  Twas  as  some  old  world  overthrown 
Where  Thesus  fought  and  Sappho  dream'd 


THE    SHIP    IN   THE    DESERT. 


In  aeons  ere  they  touch 'd  this  land, 

And   found   their   proud   souls   foot  and 

hand 

Bound  to  the  flesh  and  stang  with  pain. 
An  ugly  skeleton  it  seem'd 
Of  its  old  self.     The  fiery  rain 
Of  red  volcanoes  here  had  sown 
The  desolation  of  the  plain. 
Ay,  vanquish'd  quite  and  overthrown, 
And  torn  with  thunder-stroke,  and  strown 
With  cinders,  lo!  the  dead  earth  lay 
As  waiting  for  the  judgment  day. 
Why,  tamer  men  had  turn'd  and  said, 
On  seeing  this,  with  start  and  dread, 
And  whisper'd  each  with  gather'd  breath, 
"  We  come  on  the  abode  of  death." 

They  wound  below  a  savage  bluff 
That  lifted,  from  its  sea-mark'd  base, 
Great  walls  with  characters  cut  rough 
And  deep  by  some  long-perish'd  race; 
And  great,  strange  beasts  unnamed,  un 
known, 
Stood  hewn  and  limn'd  upon  the  stone. 

A  mournful  land  as  land  can  be 
Beneath  their  feet  in  ashes  lay, 
Beside  that  dread  and  dried-up  sea; 
A  city  older  than  that  gray 
And  sand  sown  tower  builded  when 
Confusion  cursed  the  tongues  of  men. 

Beneath,  before,  a  city  lay 
That  in  her  majesty  had  shamed 
The  wolf-nursed  conqueror  of  old; 
Below,  before,  and  far  away, 
There  reach'd  the  white  arm  of  a  bay, 
A  broad  bay  shrunk  to  sand  and  stone, 
Where  ships  had  rode  and  breakers  roll'd 
When  Babylon  was  yet  unnamed, 
And  Nimrod's  hunting-fields  unknown. 

Where  sceptered  kings  had  sat  at  feast 
Some  serpents  slid  from  out  the  grass 
That  grew  in  tufts  by  shatter'd  stone, 


Then  hid  beneath  seme  broken  mass 
That  time  had  eaten  as  a  bone 
Is  eaten  by  some  savage  beast. 

A  dull-eyed  rattlesnake  that  lay 
All  loathsome,  yellow-skinn'd,  and  slept, 
Coil'd  tight  as  pine-knot,  in  the  sun, 
With  flat  head  through  the  center  run, 
Struck  blindly  back,  then  rattling  crept 
Flat-bellied  down  the  dusty  way  .  .  . 
'Twas  all  the  dead  land  had  to  say. 

Two  pink-eyed  hawks,  wide-wing'd  and 

gray, 

S  cream 'd  savagely,  and,  circling  high, 
And  screaming  still  in  mad  dismay, 
Grew  dim  and  died  against  the  sky  .  .  . 
'Twas  all  the  heavens  had  to  say. 

Some  low-built  junipers  at  last, 
The  last  that  o'er  the  desert  look'd, 
Where  dumb   owls    sat  with  bent    bills 

hook'd 

Beneath  their  wings  awaiting  night, 
Rose  up,  then  faded  from  the  sight. 

What  dim  ghosts  hover  on  this  rim: 
What  stately-manner'd  shadows  swim 
Along  these  gleaming  wastes  of  sands 
And  shoreless  limits  of  dead  lands  ? 

Dread  Azteckee!    Dead  Azteckee! 
White  place  of  ghosts,  give  up  thy  dead; 
Give  back  to  Time  thy  buried  hosts! 
The  new  world's  tawny  Ishmaelite, 
The  roving  tent-born  Shoshonee, 
Hath  shunned  thy  shores  of  death,  at  night 
Because  thou  art  so  white,  so  dread, 
Because  thou  art  so  ghostly  white, 
And    named    thy  shores    "  the  place    of 
ghosts." 

Thy  white,  uncertain  sands  are  white 
With  bones  of  thy  unburied  dead, 
That  will  not  perish  from  the  sight. 
They  drown,  but  perish  not — ah  me! 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


What  dread  unsightly  sights  are  spread 
Along  this  lonesome,  dried-up  sea  ? 

Old,  hoar,  and  dried-up  sea!  so  old 
So   strown  with    wealth,    so   sown   with 

gold! 

Yea,  thou  art  old  and  hoary  white 
With  time,  and  ruin  of  all  things; 
And  on  thy  lonesome  borders  night 
Sits  brooding  as  with  wounded  wings. 

The  winds  that  toss'd  thy  waves  and 

blew 

Across  thy  breast  the  blowing  sail, 
And  cheer'd  the  hearts  of  cheering  crew 
From  farther  seas,  no  more  prevail. 
Thy  white-wall'd  cities  all  lie  prone, 
With  but  a  pyramid,  a  stone, 
Set  head  and  foot  in  sands  to  tell 
The  thirsting  stranger  where  they  fell. 

The  patient  ox  that  bended  low 
His  neck,  and  drew  slow  up  and  down 
Thy    thousand    freights     through    rock- 
built  town 

Is  now  the  free-born  buffalo. 
No  longer  of  the  timid  fold, 
The  mountain  ram  leaps  free  and  bold 
His  high-built  summit,  and  looks  down 
From  battlements  of  buried  town. 

Thine  ancient  steeds  know  not  the  rein; 
They  lord  the  land;  they  come,  they  go 
At  will;  they  laugh  at  man;  they  blow 
A  cloud  of  black  steeds  o'er  the  plain. 
The  winds,  the  waves,  have  drawn  away — 
The  very  wild  man  dreads  to  stay. 


XVI. 

Away !  upon  the  sandy  seas, 
The  gleaming,  burning,  boundless  plain; 
How  solemn-like,  how  still,  as  when 
The  mighty  minded  Genoese 
Drew  three  slim  ships  and  led  his  men 
From  land  they  might  not  meet  again. 


The  black  men  rode  in  front  by  two, 
The  fair  one  f ollow'd  close,  and  kept 
Her  face  held  down  as  if  she  wept; 
But  Morgan  kept  the  rear,  and  threw 
His  flowing,  swaying  beard  still  back 
In  watch  along  their  lonesome  track. 

The  weary  day  fell  down  to  rest, 
A  star  upon  his  mantled  breast, 
Ere  scarce  the  sun  fell  out  of  space, 
And  Venus  glimmer'd  in  his  place. 
Yea,  all  the  stars  shone  just  as  fair, 
And  constellations  kept  their  round, 
And  look'd  from  out  the  great  profound, 
And  march'd,  and    countermarch'd,    and 

shone 

Upon  that  desolation  there — 
Why,  just  the  same  as  if  proud  man 
Strode  up  and  down  array'd  in  gold 
And  purple  as  in  days  of  old, 
And  reckon'd  all  of  his  own  plan, 
Or  made  at  least  for  man  alone. 

Yet  on  push'd  Morgan  silently, 
And  straight  as  strong  ship  on  a  sea; 
And  ever  as  he  rode  there  lay — 
To  right,  to  left,  and  in  his  way, 
Strange  objects  looming  in  the  dark, 
Some  like  tall  mast,  or  ark,  or  bark. 

And  things  half-hidden  in  the  sand 
Lay  down  before  them  where  they  pass'd — 
A  broken  beam,  half-buried  mast, 
A  spar  or  bar,  such  as  might  be 
Blown  crosswise,  tumbled  on  the  strand 
Of  some  sail-crowded,  stormy  sea. 

All  night  by  moon,  by  morning  star, 
The  still,  black  men  still  kept  their  way; 
All  night  till  morn,  till  burning  day 
Hard  Vasques  follow'd  fast  and  far. 

The  sun  is  high,  the  sands  are  hot 
To  touch,  and  all  the  tawny  plain 
Sinks  white  and  open  as  they  tread 
And  trudge,  with  half-averted  head, 


5a 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


As  if  to  swallow  them  in  sand. 
They  look,  as  men  look  back  to  land 
When  standing  out  to  stormy  sea, 
But  still  keep  pace  and  murmur  not; 
Keep  stern  and  still  as  destiny. 

It  was  a  sight!    A  slim  dog  slid 
White-mouth'd  and  still  along  the  sand, 
The  pleading  picturo  of  distress. 
He  stopp'd,  leap'd  up  to  lick  a  hand, 
A  hard,  black  hand  that  sudden  chid 
Him  back,  and  checlz'd  his  tenderness. 
Then  when  the  black  man  turn'd  his  head, 
His  poor,  mute  friend  had  fallen  dead. 

The  very  air  hung  white  with  heat, 
And  white,  and  fair,  and  far  away 
A  lifted,  shining  snow-shaft  lay 
As  if  to  mock  their  mad  retreat. 
The  white,  salt  sands  beneath  their  feet 
Did  make  the  black  men  loom  as  grand, 
From  out  the  lifting,  heaving  heat, 
As  they  rode  sternly  on  and  on, 
As  any  bronze  men  in  the  land 
That  sit  their  statue  steeds  upon. 

The  men  were  silent  as  men  dead. 
The  sun  hung  centered  overhead, 
Nor  seem'd  to  move.     It  molten  hung 
Like  some  great  central  burner  swung 
From  lofty  beams  with  golden  bars 
In  sacristy  set  round  with  stars. 

Why,  flame  could  hardly  be  more  hot; 
Yet  on  the  mad  pursuer  came 
Across  the  gleaming,  yielding  ground, 
Right  on,  as  if  he  fed  on  flame, 
Right  on  until  the  mid-day  found 
The  man  within  a  pistol-shot. 

He  hail'd,  but  Morgan  answered  not; 
He  hail'd,  then  came  a  feeble  shot, 
And  strangely,  in  that  vastness  there, 
It  seem'd  to  scarcely  fret  the  air, 
But  fell  down  harmless  anywhere. 


He  fiercely  hail'd;  and  then  there  fell 
A  horse.     And  then  a  man  fell  down, 
And  in  the  sea-sand  seem'd  to  drown. 
Then  Vasques  cursed,  but    scarce   could 

tell 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and  all 
In  mad  confusion  seem'd  to  fall. 

Yet  on  pushed  Morgan,  silent  on, 
And  as  he  rode,  he  lean'd  and  drew 
From  his  catenas  gold,  and  threw 
The  bright  coins  in  the  glaring  sun. 
But  Vasques  did  not  heed  a  whit, 
He  scarcely  deign'd  to  scowl  at  it. 

Again  lean'd  Morgan.     He  uprose, 
And  held  a  high  hand  to  his  foes, 
And  held  two  goblets  up,  and  one 
Did  shine  as  ii  itself  a  sun. 
Then  leaning  backward  from  his  place, 
He  hurl'd  them  in  his  foeman's  face; 
Then  drew  again,  and  so  kept  on, 
Till  goblets,  gold,  and  all  were  gone. 

Yea,  strew'd  them  out  upon  the  sands 
As  men  upon  a  frosty  morn, 
In  Mississippi's  fertile  lands, 
Hurl  out  great  yellow  ears  cf  corn, 
To  hungry  swine  with  hurried  hands. 

Yet  still  hot  Vasques  urges  on, 
With  flashing  eye  and  flushing  cheek. 
What  would  he  have?  what  does  he  seek? 
He  does  not  heed  the  gold  a  whit, 
He  does  not  deign  to  look  at  it; 
But  now  his  gleaming  steel  is  drawn, 
And  now  he  leans,  would  hail  again, — 
He  opes  his  swollen  lips  in  vain. 

But  look  you!     See!     A  lifted  hand, 
And  Vasques  beckons  his  command. 
He  cannot  speak,  he  leans,  and  he 
Bends  low  upon  his  saddle-bow. 
And  now  his  blade  drops  to  his  knee, 
And  now  he  falters,  now  comes  on, 
And  now  his  head  is  bended  low; 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


153 


And  now  his  rein,  his  steel,  is  gone; 

Now  faint  as  any  child  is  he; 

And  now  his  steed  sinks  to  the  knee. 

The  sun  hung  molten  in  mid-space, 
Like  some  great  star  fix'd  in  its  place. 
From  out  the  gleaming  spaces  rose 
A  sheen  of  gossamer  and  danced, 
As  Morgan  slow  and  still  advanced 
Before  his  far-receding  foes. 
Right  on,  and  on,  the  still,  black  line 
Drove   straight  through    gleaming    sand 

and  shine, 

By  spar  and  beam  and  mast,  and  stray 
And  waif  of  sea  and  cast  away. 

The  far  peaks  faded  from  their  sight, 
The  mountain  walls  fell  down  like  night, 
And  nothing  now  was  to  be  seen 
Except  the  dim  sun  hung  in  sheen 
Of  gory  garments  all  blood-red, — 
The  hell  beneath,  the  hell  o'erhead. 

A  black  man  tumbled  from  his  steed. 
He  clutch'd  in  death  the  moving  sands, 
He  caught  the  hot  earth  in  his  hands, 
He  gripp'd  it,  held  it  hard  and  grim — 
The  great,  sad  mother  did  not  heed 
His  hold,  but  pass'd  right  on  from  him. 

XVII. 

The  sun  seem'd  broken  loose  at  last. 
And  settled  slowly  to  the  west, 
Half-hidden  as  he  fell  to  rest, 
Yet,  like  the  flying  Parthian,  cast 
His  keenest  arrows  as  he  pass'd. 

On,  on,  the  black  men  slowly  drew 
Their    length    like    some    great    serpent 

through 

The  sands,  and  left  a  hollow'd  groove: 
They  moved,  they  scarcely  seem'd  to  move. 
How  patient  in  their  muffled  tread! 
How  like  the  dead  march  of  the  dead! 


At  last  the  slow,  black  line  was  check'd, 
An  instant  only;  now  again 
It  moved,  it  falter'd  now,  and  now 
It  settled  in  its  sandy  bed, 
And  steeds  stood  rooted  to  the  plain. 
Then  all  stood  still,  and  men  somehow 
Look'd  down  and  with  averted  head; 
Look'd  down,    nor  dared    look    up,    nor 

reck'd 

Of  anything,  of  ill  or  good, 
But  bow'd  and  stricken  still  they  stood. 

Like   some  brave  band  that  dared  the 

fierce 

And  bristled  steel  of  gather'd  host, 
These  daring  men  had  dared  to  pierce 
This  awful  vastness,  dead  and  gray. 
And  now  at  last  brought  well  at  bay 
They  stood, — but  each  stood  to  his  post. 

Then  one  dismounted,  waved  a  hand, 
'  Twas  Morgan's  stern  and  still  command 
There  fell  a  clank,  like  loosen'd  chain, 
As  men  dismounting  loosed  the  rein. 
Then  every  steed  stood  loosed  and  free; 
And  some  stepp'd  slow  and  mute  aside, 
And  some  sank  to  the  sands  and  died; 
And  some  stood  still  as  shadows  be. 

Old  Morgan  turn'd  and  raised  his  hand 
And  laid  it  level  with  his  eyes, 
And  looked  far  back  along  the  land. 
He  saw  a  dark  dust  still  uprise, 
Still  surely  tend  to  where  he  lay. 
He  did  not  curse,  he  did  not  say — 
He  did  not  even  look  surprise. 

Nay,  he  was  over-gentle  now; 
He  wiped  a  time  his  Titan  brow, 
Then  sought  dark  Sybal  in  her  place, 
Put  out  his  arms,  put  down  his  face 
And  look'd   in   hers.      She    reach'd    hei 

hands, 

She  lean'd,  she  fell  upon  his  breast; 
He  reach'd  his  arms  around;  she  lay 
As  lies  a  bird  in  leafy  nest. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


And  he  look'd  out  across  the  sands 
And  bearing  her,  he  strode  away. 

Some  black  men  settled  down  to  rest, 
But  none  made  murmur  or  request. 
The  dead  were  dead,  and  that  were  best; 
The  living,  leaning,  follow'd  him, 
A  long  dark  line  of  shadow  dim. 

The  day  through  high  mid-heaven  rode 
Across  the  sky,  the  dim,  red  day; 
And  on,  the  war-like  day-god  strode 
With  shoulder'd  shield  away,  away. 
The  savage,  war-like  day  bent  low, 
As  reapers  bend  in  gathering  grain, 
As  archer  bending  bends  yew  bow, 
And  flush'd  and  fretted  as  in  pain. 

Then  down  his  shoulder  slid  his  shield, 
So  huge,  so  awful,  so  blood-red 
And  batter'd  as  from  battle-field: 
It  settled,  sunk  to  his  left  hand, 
Sunk  down  and  down,  it  touch'd  the  sand; 
Then  day  along  the  land  lay  dead, 
Without  one  candle,  foot  or  head. 

And  now  the  moon  wheel'd  white  and 

vast, 

A  round,  unbroken,  marbled  moon, 
And   touch'd  the  far,   bright    buttes    of 

snow, 

Then  climb'd  their  shoulders  over  soon; 
And  there  she  seem'd  to  sit  at  last, 
To  hang,  to  hover  there,  to  grow, 
Grow  grander  than  vast  peaks  of  snow. 

She  sat  the  battlements  of  time; 
She  shone  in  mail  of  frost  and  rime 
A  time,  and  then  rose  up  and  stood 
In  heaven  in  sad  widowhood. 

The  faded  moon  fell  wearily, 
And  then  the  sun  right  suddenly 
Hose  up  full  arm'd,  and  rushing  came 
Across  the  land  like  flood  of  flame. 


And  now  it  seemed  that  hills  uprose, 
High  push'd  against  the  arching  skies, 
As  if  to  meet  the  sudden  sun — 
Hose  sharp  from  out  the  sultry  dun, 
And  seem'd  to  hold  the  free  repose 
Of  lands  where  flow'ry  summits  rise, 
In  unfenced  fields  of  Paradise. 

The  black  men  look'd  up  from  the  sands 
Against  the  dim,  uncertain  skies, 
As  men  that  disbelieved  their  eyes, 
And  would  have  laugh'd;  they  wept  in 
stead, 

With  shoulders  heaved,  with  bowing  head 
Hid  down  between  the  two  black  hands. 

They  stood  and  gazed.   Lo!  like  the  call 
Of  spring-time  promises,  the  trees 
Lean'd  from  their  lifted  mountain  wall, 
And  stood  clear  cut  against  the  skies, 
As  if  they  grew  in  pistol-shot; 
Yet  all  the  mountains  answer'd  not, 
And  yet  there  came  no  cooling  breeze, 
Nor  soothing  sense  of  wind- wet  trees. 

At  last  old  Morgan,  looking  through 
His  shaded  fingers,  let  them  go, 
And  let  his  load  fall  down  as  dead. 
He  groan'd,  he  clutch'd  his  beard  of  snow 
As  was  his  wont,  then  bowing  low, 
Took  up  his  life,  and  moaning  said, 
"Lord  Christ!  'tis  the  mirage,  and  we 
Stand  blinded  in  a  burning  sea." 

XVIII. 

Again  they  move,  but  where  or  how 
It  recks  them  little,  nothing  now. 
Yet  Morgan  leads  them  as  before, 
But  totters  now;  he  bends,  and  he 
Is  like  a  broken  ship  a-sea, — 
A  ship  that  knows  not  any  shore, 
Nor  rudder,  nor  shall  anchor  more. 

Some  leaning  shadows  crooning  crept 
Through  desolation,  crown'd  in  dust. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


And  had  the  mad  pursuer  kept 
His  path,  and  cherish'd  his  pursuit  ? 
There  lay  no  choice.     Advance,  he  must: 
Advance,  and  eat  his  ashen  fruit. 

Again  the  still  moon  rose  and  stood 
Above  the  dim,  dark  belt  of  wood, 
Above  the  buttes,  above  the  snow, 
And  bent  a  sad,  sweet  face  below. 
She  reach'd  along  the  level  plain 
Her  long,  white  fingers.    Then  again 
She  reach'd,  she  touch'd  the  snowy  sands, 
Then  reach'd  far  out  until  she  touch'd 
A  heap  that  lay  with  doubled  hands, 
Reach'd  from  its  sable  self,  and  clutch'd 
With  patient  death.     O  tenderly 
That  black,  that  dead  and  hollow  face 

Was  kiss'd  at  midnight What  if  I  say 

The    long,    white    moonbeams    reaching 

there, 

Caressing  idle  hands  of  clay, 
And  resting  on  the  wrinkled  hair 
And  great  lips  push'd  in  sullen  pout, 
Were  God's  own  fingers  reaching  out 
From  heaven  to  that  lonesome  place? 


XIX. 

By  waif  and  stray  and  cast-away, 
Such  as  are  seen  in  seas  withdrawn, 
Old  Morgan  led  in  silence  on; 
And  sometimes  lilting  up  his  head, 
To  guide  his  footsteps  as  he  led, 
He  deem'd  he  saw  a  great  ship  lay 
Her  keel  along  the  sea-wash'd  sand, 
As  with  her  captain's  old  command. 

The  stars  were  seal'd;  and  then  a  haze 
Of  gossamer  fill'd  all  the  west, 
So  like  in  Indian  summer  days, 
And  veil'd  all  things.    And  then  the  moon 
Grew  pale,  and  faint,  and  far.     She  died, 
And  now  nor  star  nor  any  sign 
Fell  out  of  heaven.     Oversoon 
A  black  man  fell.     Then  at  his  side 


Some  one  sat  down  to  watch,  to  rest- 
To  rest,  to  watch,  or  what  you  will, 
The  man  sits  resting,  watching  still. 


xx. 

The  day  glared  through  the  eastern  rim 
Of  rocky  peaks,  as  prison  bars, 
With  light  as  dim  as  distant  stars. 
The  sultry  sunbeams  filter'd  down 
Through  misty  phantoms  weird  and  dim, 
Through  shifting  shapes  bat-wing'd  and 
brown. 

Like  some  vast  ruin  wrapped  in  flame 
The  sun  fell  down  before  them  now. 
Behind  them  wheel'd  white  peaks  of  snow, 
As  they  proceeded.     Gray  and  grim 
And  awful  objects  went  and  came 
Before  them  all.     They  pierced  at  last 
The  desert's  middle  depths,  and  lo! 
There  loom'd  from  out  the  desert  vast 
A  lonely  ship,  well-built  and  trim, 
And  perfect  all  in  hull  and  mast. 

No  storm  had  stain'd  it  any  whit, 
No  seasons  set  their  teeth  in  it. 
Her  masts  were  white  as  ghosts,  and  tall; 
Her  decks  were  as  of  yesterday. 
The  rains,  the  elements,  and  all 
The  moving  things  that  bring  decay 
By  fair  green  lands  or  fairer  seas, 
Had  touch'd  not  here  for  centuries. 
Lo!  date  had  lost  all  reckoning, 
And  time  had  long  forgotten  all 
!n  this  lost  land,  and  no  new  thing 
Or  old  could  anywise  befall, 
For  Time  went  by  the  other  way. 

What  dreams  of  gold  or  conquest  drew 
The  oak-built  sea-king  to  these  seas, 
Ere  earth,  old  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Rose  up  and  shook  man  iu  disgust 
From  off  her  wearied  breast,  and  threw 
His  high-built  cities  down,  and  dried 
These  unnamed  ship-sown  seas  to  dust? 


'56 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


Who   trod   these   decks?      What   captain 

knew 
The  straits  that  led  to  lands  like  these? 

Blew    south-sea    breeze    or     north-sea 

breeze  ? 
What  spiced- winds  whistled  through  this 

sail? 

What  banners  stream'd  above  these  seas? 
And  what  strange  seaman  auswer'd  back 
To  other  sea-king's  beck  and  hail, 
That  blew  across  his  foamy  track? 

Sought  Jason  here  the  golden  fleece  ? 
Came  Trojan  ship  or  ships  of  Greece? 
Came  decks  dark-mann'd  from  sultry  Ind, 
Woo'd  here  by  spacious  wooing  wind? 
So  like  a  grand,  sweet  woman,  when 
A  great  love  moves  her  soul  to  men? 

Came  here  strong  ships  of  Solomon 

In  quest  of  Ophir  by  Cathay  ? 

Sit  down  and  dream  of  seas  withdrawn, 
And  every  sea-breath  drawn  away. 
Sit  down,  sit  down!     What  is  the  good 
That  we  go  on  still  fashioning 
Great  iron  ships  or  walls  of  wood, 
High  masts  of  oak,  or  anything? 

Lo!  all  things  moving  must  go  by. 
The  seas  lie  dead.     Behold,  this  land 
Sits  desolate  in  dust  beside 
His  snow-white,  seamless  shroud  of  sand; 
The  very  clouds  have  wept  and  died, 
And  only  God  is  in  the  sky. 

XXI. 

The  sands  lay  heaved,  as   heaved  by 

waves, 

As  fashioned  in  a  thousand  graves: 
And   wrecks   of    storm    blown   here    and 

there, 

And  dead  men  scatter'd  everywhere; 
And  strangely  clad  they  seem'cl  to  be 
Just  as  they  sank  in  that  dread  sea. 


The  mermaid  with  her  golden  hair 
Had  clung  about  a  wreck's  beam  there, 
And  sung  her  song  of  sweet  despair, 
The  time  she  saw  the  seas  withdrawn 
And  all  her  pride  and  glory  gone: 
Had  sung  her  melancholy  dirge 
Above  the  last  receding  surge, 
And,  looking  down  the  rippled  tide, 
Had  sung,  and  with  her  song  had  died. 

The  monsters  of  the  sea  lay  bound 
In  strange  contortions.     Coil'd  around 
A  mast  half  heaved  above  the  sand 
The  great  sea-serpent's  folds  were  found, 
As  solid  as  ship's  iron  band; 
And  basking  in  the  burning  sun 
There  rose  the  great  whale's  skeleton. 

A  thousand  sea  things  stretch'd  across 
Their  weary  and  bewilder'd  way: 
Great  unnamed  monsters  wrinkled  lay 
With  sunken  eyes  and  shrunken  form. 
The  strong  sea-horse  that  rode  the  storm 
With  mane  as  light  and  white  as  floss, 
Lay  tangled  in  his  mane  of  moss. 

And  anchor,  hull,  and  cast-away, 
And  all  things  that  the  miser  deep 
Doth  in  his  darkling  locker  keep, 
To  right  and  left  around  them  lay. 
Yea,  golden  coin  and  golden  cup, 
And  golden  cruse,  and  golden  plate, 
And  all  that  great  seas  swallow  up, 
Eight  in  their  dreadful  pathway  lay. 
The  hoary  sea  made  white  with  time, 
And  wrinkled  cross  with  many  a  crime, 
With  all  his  treasured  thefts  lay  there, 
His  sins,  his  very  soul  laid  bare, 
As  if  it  were  the  Judgment  Day. 

XXII. 

And  now  the  tawny  night  fell  soon, 
And  there  was  neither  star  nor  moon; 
And  yet  it  seem'd  it  was  not  night. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


157 


There  fell  a  phosphorescent  light, 

There   rose  from  white  sands   and   dead 

men 

A  soft  light,  white  and  strange  as  when 
The  Spirit  of  Jehovah  moved 
Upon  the  water's  conscious  face, 
And  made  it  His  abiding  place. 

Remote,  around  the  lonesome  ship, 
Old  Morgan  moved,  but  knew  it  not, 
For  neither  star  nor  moon  fell  down .... 
I  trow  that  was  a  lonesome  spot 
He  found,  where  boat  and  ship  did  dip 
In  sands  like  some  half-sunken  town. 

At  last  before  the  leader  lay 
A  form  that  in  the  night  did  seem 
A  slain  Goliath.     As  in  a  dream, 
He  drew  aside  in  his  slow  pace, 
And  look'd.     He  saw  a  sable  face! 
A  friend  that  fell  that  very  day, 
Thrown  straight  across  his  wearied  way. 

He  falter'd  now.     His  iron  heart, 
That  never  yet  refused  its  part, 
Began  to  fail  him;  and  his  strength 
Shook  at  his  knees,  as  shakes  the  wind 
A  shatter'd  ship.     His  shatter'd  mind 
Ranged  up  and  down  the  land.    At  length 
He  turn'd,  as  ships  turn,  tempest  toss'd, 
For  now  he  knew  that  he  was  lost! 
He  sought  in  vain  the  moon,  the  stars, 
In  vain  the  battle-star  of  Mars. 

Again  he  moved.     And  now  again 
He  paused,  he  peer'd  along  the  plain, 
Another  form  before  him  lay. 
He  stood,  and  statue-white  he  stood, 
He  trembled  like  a  stormy  wood, — 
It  was  a  foeman  brawn  and  gray. 

He  lifted  up  his  head  again, 
Again  he  search'd  the  great  profound 
For  moon,  for  star,  but  sought  in  vain. 
He  kept  his  circle  round  and  round 


The  great  ship  lifting  from  the  sand, 
And  pointing  heavenward  like  a  hand. 

And  still  he  crept  along  the  plain, 
Yet  where  his  foeman  dead  again 
Lay  in  his  way  he  moved  around, 
And  soft  as  if  on  sacred  ground, 
And  did  not  touch  him  anywhere. 
It  might  have  been  he  had  a  dread, 
In  his  half-crazed  and  fever'd  brain, 
His  fallen  foe  might  rise  again 
If  he  should  dare  to  touch  him  there. 

He  circled  round  the  lonesome  ship 
Like  some  wild  beast  within  a  wall, 
That  keeps  his  paces  round  and  round. 
The  very  stillness  had  a  sound; 
He  saw  strange  somethings  rise  and  dip; 
He  felt  the  weirdness  like  a  pall 
Come  down  and  cover  him.     It  seem'd 
To  take  a  form,  take  many  forms, 
To  talk  to  him,  to  reach  out  arms; 
Yet  on  he  kept,  and  silent  kept, 
And  as  he  led  he  lean'd  and  slept, 
And  as  he  slept  he  talk'd  and  dream'd. 

Two   shadows    follow'd,    stopp'd,    and 

stood 

Bewilder'd,  wander'd  back  again, 
Came  on  and  then  fell  to  the  sand, 
And  sinking  died.     Then  other  men 
Did  wag  their  woolly  heads  and  laugh, 
Then  bend  their  necks  and  seem  to  quaff 
Of  cooling  waves  that  careless  flow 
Where   woods  and  long,    strong    grasses 
grow. 

Yet  on  wound  Morgan,  leaning  low, 
With  her  upon  his  breast,  and  slow 
As  hand  upon  a  dial  plate. 
He  did  not  turn  his  course  or  quail, 
He  did  not  falter,  did  not  fail, 
Turn  right  or  left  or  hesitate. 

Some  far-off  sounds  had  lost  their  way, 
And  seem'd  to  call  to  him  and  pray 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


For  help,  as  if  they  were  affright. 
It  was  not  day,  it  seem'd  not  night, 
But  that  dim  land  that  lies  between 
The  mournful,  faithful  face  of  night, 
And  loud  and  gold-bedazzled  day; 
A  night  that  was  not  felt  but  seen. 

There  seem'd   not   now    the   ghost    of 

sound, 

He  stepp'd  as  soft  as  step  the  dead; 
Yet  on  he  led  in  solemn  tread, 
Bewilder'd,  blinded,  round  and  round, 
About  the  great  black  ship  that  rose 
Tall-masted  as  that  ship  that  blows 
Her  ghost  below  lost  Panama, — 
The  tallest  mast  man  ever  saw. 

Two  leaning  shadows  follow'd  him : 
Their  eyes  were  red,    their  teeth  shone 

white, 

Their  limbs  did  lift  as  shadows  swim. 
Then  one  went  left  and  one  went  right, 
And  in  the  night  pass'd  out  of  sight; 
Pass'd  through  the    portals    black,    un 
known, 
And  Morgan  totter'd  on  alone. 

And  why  he  still  survived  the  rest, 
Why  still  he  had  the  strength  to  stir, 
Why  still  he  stood  like  gnarled  oak 
That  buffets  storm  and  tempest  stroke, 
One  cannot  say,  save  but  for  her, 
That  helpless  being  on  his  breast. 

She  did  not  speak,  she  did  not  stir; 
In  pippled  currents  over  her, 
Her  black,  abundant  hair  pour'd  down 
Like  mantle  or  some  sable  gown. 
That  sad,  sweet  dreamer;  she  who  knew 
Not  anything  of  earth  at  all, 
Nor  cared  to  know  its  bane  or  bliss; 
That  dove  that  did  not  touch  the  land, 
That  knew,  yet  did  not  understand. 
And  this  may  be  because  she  drew 
Her  all  of  life  right  from  the  hand 


Of  God,  and  did  not  choose  to  learn 
The  things   that    make    up    man's    con- 
cern. 


Ah  !  there  be  souls  none  understand; 
1  Like  clouds,  they  cannot  touch  the  land. 
Unanchored  ships,  they  blow  and  blow, 
Sail  to  and  fro,  and  then  go  down 
In  unknown  seas  that  none  shall  know, 
Without  one  ripple  of  renown. 

Call  these  not  fools;  the  test  of  worth 
Is  not  the  hold  you  have  of  earth. 
Ay,  there  be  gentlest  souls  sea-blown 
That  know  not  any  harbor  known. 
Now  it  may  be  the  reason  is, 
They  touch  on  fairer  shores  than  this. 

At  last  he  touch'd  a  fallen  group, 
Dead  fellows  tumbled  in  the  sands, 
Dead  foemen,  gather'd  to  their  dead. 
And  eager  now  the  man  did  stoop, 
Lay  down  his  load  and  reach  his  hands, 
And  stretch   his   form   and    look   stead 
fast 

And  frightful,  and  as  one  aghast. 
He  lean'd,  and  then  he  raised  his  head, 
And  look'd  for  Vasques,  but  in  vain 
He  peer'd  along  the  deadly  plain. 

Now,  from  the  night  another  face 
The  last  that  follow'd  through  the  deep, 
Comes  on,  falls  dead  within  a  pace. 
Yet  Vasques  still  survives!    But  where? 
His  last  bold  follower  lies  there, 
Thrown     straight     across    old   Morgan 'H 

track, 

As  if  to  check  him,  bid  him  back. 
He  stands,  he  does  not  dare  to  stir, 
He  watches  by  his  charge  asleep, 
He  fears  for  her:  but  only  her. 
The  man  who  ever  mock'd  at  death, 
He  only  dares  to  draw  his  breath. 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE     DESERT. 


XXIII. 

Beyond,  and  still  as  black  despair, 
A.  man  rose  up,  stood  dark  and  tall, 
Stretch'd  out  his  neck,  reach'd  forth,  let 

fall 
Dark  oaths,   and    Death    stood    waiting 

there. 


He  drew  his  blade,  came  straight  as 

death 

For  Morgan's  last  and  most  endear'd. 
I  think  no  man  there  drew  a  breath, 
I  know  that  no  man  quail'd  or  fear'd. 

A  tawny  dead  man  stretch'd  between, 
And  Vasques  set  his  foot  thereon. 
The   stars    were    seal'd,  the    moon    was 

gone, 

The  very  darkness  cast  a  shade. 
The  scene  was  rather  heard  than  seen, 
The  rattle  of  a  single  blade .... 

A  right  foot  rested  on  the  dead, 
A    black    hand    reach'd   and   clutch'd   a 

beard, 
Then    neither    pray'd,     nor    dream'd    of 

hope. 

A  fierce  face  reach'd,  a  black  face  peer'd 

No  bat  went  whirling  overhead, 
No  star  fell  out  of  Ethiope. 

The  dead  man  lay  between  them  there, 
The  two  men  glared  as  tigers  glare, — 
The  black  man  held  him  by  the  beard. 
He  wound  his  hand,  he  held  him  fast, 
And  tighter  held,  as  if  he  fear'd 
The  man  might  'scape  him  at  the  last. 
Whiles  Morgan  did  not  speak  or  stir, 
But  stood  in  silent  watch  with  her. 

Not  long A  light  blade  lifted,  thrust, 

A  blade  that  leapt  and  swept  about, 

So  wizard-like,  like  wand  in  spell, 

So  like  a  serpent's  tongue  thrust  out. . 


Thrust  twice,  thrust  thrice,  thrust  as  he 

fell, 
Thrust    through    until    it    touched    the 

dust. 

Yet  ever  as  he  thrust  and  smote, 
A  black  hand  like  an  iron  band 
Did  tighten  round  a  gasping  throat. 
He  fell,  but  did  not  loose  his  hand; 
The  two  lay  dead  upon  the  sand. 


Lo!  up  and  from  the  fallen  forms 
Two  ghosts  came,  dark  as  gathered  storms; 
Two    gray   ghosts    stood,    then   looking 

back; 

With  hands  all  empty,  and  hands  clutch'd, 
Strode  on  in  silence.     Then  they  touch'd, 
Along  the  lonesome,  chartless  track, 
Where  dim  Plutonian  darkness  fell, 
Then  touch'd  the  outer  rim  of  hell; 
And  looking  back  their  great  despair 
Sat  sadly  down,  as  resting  there. 


XXIV. 

As  if  there  was  a  strength  in  death 
The  battle  seem'd  to  nerve  the  man 
To  superhuman  strength.     He  rose, 
Held  up  his  head,  began  to  scan 
The  heavens  and  to  take  his  breath 
Eight  strong  and  lustily.     He  now 
Eesumed  his  part,  and  with  his  eye 
Fix'd  on  a  star  that  filter'd  through 
The  farther  west,  push'd  bare  his  brow, 
And    kept    his   course    with    head    held 

high, 

As  if  he  strode  his  deck  and  drew 
His  keel  below  some  lofty  light 
That  watch'd  the  rocky  reef  at  night. 

How  lone  he  was,  how  patient  she 
Upon  that  lonesome  sandy  sea! 
It  were  a  sad,  unpleasant  sight 
To  follow  them  through  all  the  night, 


i6o 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


Until  the  time  they  lifted  hand, 
And  touch'd  at  last  a  water'd  land. 


The  turkeys  walk'd  the  tangled  grass, 
And  scarcely  turn'd  to  let  them  pass, 
There  was  no  sign  of  man,  nor  sign 
Of  savage  beast.     'Twas  so  divine, 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  bended  skies 
Were  rounded  for  this  Paradise. 

The  large-eyed  antelope  came  down 
From  off  their  windy  hills,  and  blew 
Their  whistles  as  they  wander'd  through 
The  open  groves  of  water'd  wood; 
They  came  as  light  as  if  on  wing, 
And  reached  their  noses  wet  and  brown 
And  stamp'd  their  little  feet  and  stood 
Close  up  before  them  wondering. 

What  if  this  were  that  Eden  old, 
They  found  in  this  heart  of  the  new 
And  unnamed  westmost  world  of  gold. 
Where  date  and  history  had  birth, 
And  man  began  first  wandering 
To  go  the  girdle  of  the  earth, 
And  find  the  beautiful  and  true? 

It  lies  a  little  isle  mid  land, 
An  island  in  a  sea  of  sand; 
With  reedy  waters  and  the  balm 
Of  an  eternal  summer  air; 
Some  blowy  pines  toss  tall  and  fair; 
And  there  are  grasses  long  and  strong, 
And  tropic  fruits  that  never  fail: 
The  Manzanita  pulp,  the  palm, 
The  prickly  pear,  with  all  the  song 
Of     summer     birds.       And     there     the 

quail 
Makes    nest,     and    you    may    hear    her 

call 
All  day  from  out  the  chaparral. 

A  land  where  white  man  never  trod, 
And  Morgan  seems  some  demi-god, 


Chat  haunts  the  red  man's  spirit  land. 
A  land  where  never  red  man's  hand 
[s  lifted  up  in  strife  at  all, 
But  holds  it  sacred  unto  those 
Who  bravely  fell  before  their  foes, 
And  rarely  dares  its  desert  wall. 

Here  breaks   nor  sound  of   strife  nor 

sign; 

Hare  times  a  chieftain  comes  this  way, 
Alone,  and  battle-scarr'd  and  gray, 
And  then  he  bends  devout  before 
The  maid  who  keeps  the  cabin-door, 
And  deems  her  something  all  divine. 


Within  the  island's  heart  'tis  said, 
Tall     trees     are     bending     down     with 

bread, 

And  that  a  fountain  pure  as  Truth, 
And  deep  and  mossy-bound  and  fair, 
Is  bubbling  from  the  forest  there. — 
Perchance  the  fabled  fount  of  youth! 
An  isle  where  skies  are  ever  fair, 
Where  men  keep  never  date  nor  day, 
Where  Time  has  thrown  his  glass  away. 

This  isle  is  all  their  own.     No  more 
The     flight     by     day,     the     watch     by 

night. 

Dark  Sybal  twines  about  the  door 
The  scarlet  blooms,  the  blossoms  white 
And  winds  red  berries  in  her  hair, 
And  never  knows  the  name  of  care. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds;  they  blow 
In  rainbow  clouds,  in  clouds  of  snow; 
The  birds  take  berries  from  her  hand; 
They  come  and  go  at  her  command. 

She  has  a  thousand  pretty  birds, 
That  sing  her  summer  songs  all  day; 
Small,  black-hoof'd  antelope  in  herds, 
And  squirrels  bushy-tail'd  and  gray, 


THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 


161 


With  round  and  sparkling  eyes  of  pink, 
And  cunning-faced  as  you  can  think. 

She  has  a  thousand  busy  birds: 
And  is  she  happy  in  her  isle, 
With  all  her  feather'd  friends  and  herds? 
For  when  has  Morgan  seen  her  smile  ? 

She  has  a  thousand  cunning  birds, 
They  would  build  nestings  in  her  hair, 
She  has  brown  antelope  in  herds; 
She  never  knows  the  name  of  care; 
Why,  then,  is  she  not  happy  there  ? 

All  patiently  she  bears  her  part; 
She  has  a  thousand  birdlings  there, 


These    birds    they    would    build    in   her 

hair; 
But  not  one  bird  builds  in  her  heart. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds;  yet  she 
Would  give  ten  thousand  cheerfully. 
All  bright  of  plume  and  pure  of  tongue, 
And  sweet  as  ever  trilled  or  sung, 
For  one  small  flutter'd  bird  to  come 
And    build    within    her    heart,    though 
dumb. 

She  has  a  thousand  birds;  yet  one 
Is  lost,  and,  lo!  she  is  undone. 
She  sighs  sometimes.     She  looks  away, 
And  yet  she  does  not  weep  or  say. 


"The  Ship  in  the  Desert"  was  first  published  in  London -Chapman  and  Hall,  1876.  It  was  nearly  twice  its 
present  length  and  was  dedicated  To  MY  PARENTS  IN  OREGON,  as  follows: 

With  deep  reverence  I  inscribe  these  lines,  my  dear  parents,  to  you.  I  see  you  now,  away  beyond  the  seas— 
beyond  the  lands  where  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  Pacific  like  some  great  ship  of  fire,  resting  still  on  the  green 
hills,  waiting 

"Where  rolls  the  Oregon 
And  hears  no  sound  save  its  own  dashing." 

Nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago  you  took  me  the  long  and  lonesome  half-year's  journey  across  the  mighty 
continent,  wild  and  rent  and  broken  up  and  sown  with  sand  and  ashes  and  crossed  by  tumbling  wooded  rivers 
that  ran  as  if  glad  to  get  away,  fresh  and  strange  and  new,  as  if  but  half -fashioned  from  the  hand  of  God.  All 
the  time  as  I  tread  this  strange  land  I  re-live  those  scenes,  and  you  are  with  me.  How  dark  and  deep,  how 
sullen,  strong  and  lioulike  the  mighty  Missouri  rolled  between  his  walls  of  uutracked  wood  and  cleft  the  un 
known  domain  of  the  middle  world  before  us!  Then  the  frail  and  buffeted  rafts  on  the  river,  the  women  and 
children  huddled  together,  the  shouts  of  the  brawny  men  as  they  swam  with  the  bellowing  cattle,  the  cows 
in  the  stormy  stream  eddying,  whirling,  spinning  about,  calling  to  their  young,  their  bright  horns  shining  in  the 
sun.  The  wild  men  waiting  on  the  other  side;  painted  savages,  leaning  on  their  bows,  despising  our  weak 
ness,  opening  a  way,  letting  us  pass  on  to  the  unknown  distances,  where  they  said  the  sun  and  moon  lay 
down  together  and  brought  forth  the  stars.  The  long  and  winding  lines  of  wagons,  the  graves  by  the  way 
side,  the  women  weeping  together  as  they  passed  on.  Then  hills,  then  plains,  parched  lands  like  Syria,  dust 
and  alkali,  cold  streams  with  woods,  camps  by  night,  great  wood  fires  in  circles,  tents  in  the  center  like  Csesar's 
battle  camps,  painted  men  that  passed  like  shadows,  showers  of  arrows,  the  wild  beasts  howling  from  the 
hilla.  You,  my  dear  parents,  will  pardon  the  thread  of  fiction  on  which  I  have  strung  these  scenes  and  de 
scriptions  of  a  mighty  land  of  mystery,  and  wild  and  savage  grandeur,  for  the  world  will  have  its  way,  and,  like 
a  spoiled  child,  demands  a  tale— 

"Yea, 
We  who  toil  and  earn  our  bread,  still  have  our  masters." 


A  ragged  and  broken  story  it  is,  with  long  deserts,  with  alkali  and  ashes,  yet  it  may,  like  the  land  it  deals  of , 
have  some  green  places,  and  woods  and  running  waters,  where  you  can  rest. 

Three  times  now  I  have  ranged  the  great  West  in  fancy,  as  I  did  in  fact  for  twenty  years  and  gathered  un 
known  and  unnamed  blossoms  from  mountain  top,  from  desert  land,  where  man  never  ranged  before,  and  asked 


l62  THE    SHIP    IN    THE    DESERT. 

the  West  to  receive  my  weeds,  my  grasses  and  blue-eyed  blossoms.  But  here  it  ends.  Good  or  bad,  I  have  done 
enough  of  this  work  on  the  border.  The  Orient  promises  a  more  grateful  harvest.  I  have  been  true  to  my 
West.  She  has  been  my  only  love.  I  have  remembered  her  greatness.  I  have  done  my  work  to  show  to  the 
world  her  vastness,  her  riches,  her  resources,  her  valor  and  her  dignity,  her  poetry  and  her  grandeur.  Yet 
while  I  was  going  on  working  so  in  silence,  what  were  the  things  she  said  of  me  ?  But  let  that  pass,  my  dear 
parents.  Others  will  come  after  us.  Possibly  I  have  blazed  out  the  trail  for  great  minds  over  this  field,  as 
you  did  across  the  deserts  and  plains  for  great  men  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago.  JOAQUIN  MILLER. 

LAKE  COMO,  ITALY. 

I  had  bought  land  near  Naples,  along  with  a  young  Englishman  intending  to  settle  down  there;  but  we  both 
were  stricken  with  malarial  fever;  ho  died,  and  I,  broken  and  sick  at  heart  for  my  mountains,  finally  came  home. 

The  author  of  Cleopatra,  a  man  of  great  and  varied  endowments,  laid  a  strong  hand  to  the  fashioning  of 
this  poem,  and  in  return  I  made  mention  of  his  Sybals  and  Seuiiramis.  We  knew,  in  Rome,  and  loved  much  the 
woman  herein  described.  In  truth,  I  never  created  any  one  of  my  men  or  women  or  scenes  entirely. 

As  for  the  story  of  the  ship  in  the  desert,  it  is  old,  old.  You  can  see  the  tide  marks  of  an  ocean  even  from 
your  car  window  as  you  glide  around  Salt  Lake,  hundreds  of  feet  up  the  steeps.  The  mighty  Colorado  Caflon  was 
made  by  the  breaking  away  of  this  ocean,  you  find  oyster  shells  and  petrified  salt  water  fish  in  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains,  and  a  stranded  ship  in  the  desert  is  quite  in  line  with  these  facts. 

The  body  of  this  poem  was  first  published  in  the  A  tlantic  Monthly.  The  purpose  of  it  was  the  same  as 
induced  the  Isles  of  the  Amazons,  but  the  work  is  better  because  more  true  and  nearer  to  the  heart.  Bear  in  mind 
it  was  done  when  the  heart  of  the  continent  was  indeed  a  desert,  or  at  least  a  wilderness.  How  much  or  how  little 
it  may  have  had  to  do  in  bringing  Europe  this  way  to  seek  for  the  lost  Edens,  and  to  make  the  desert  blossom  as 
the  rose,  matters  nothing  now;  but,  "  He  hath  brought  many  captives  home  to  Rome  whose  ransom  did  the  gen- 
erous  coffers  fill." 

THE  HIGHTS,  May,  '97. 


PICTURES. 


PICTURES. 

My  brave  world-builders  of  the   West! 
Why,  who  doth  know  ye?     Who  shall  know 
But  I,  that  on  thy  peaks  of  snow 
Brake  bread  the  first  J     Who  loves  ye  best  f 
Who  holds  ye  still,  of  more  stern  worth 
Than  all  proud  peoples  of  the  earth? 

Yea,  I,  the  rhymer  of  wild  rhymes, 

Indifferent  of  blame  or  praise, 

Still  sing  of  ye,  as  one  who  plays 

The  same  sweet  air  in  all  strange  climes — 

The  same  wild,  piercing  highland  air, 

Because — because,  his  heart  is  there. 


THE  SIERRAS  FROM  THE  SEA. 
I. 

Like  fragments  of  an  uncompleted  world, 
From  bleak  Alaska,    bound   in  ice  and 

spray, 

To  where  the  peaks  of  Darien  lie  curl'd 
In  clouds,  the  broken  lands  loom  bold  and 

gray. 

The  seamen  nearing  San  Francisco  Bay 
Forget  the  compass  here;  with  sturdy  hand 
They  seize  the  wheel,  lookup,  then  bravely 

lay 
The  ship  to  shore  by  rugged  peaks  that 

stand 
The  stern  and  proud  patrician  fathers  of 

the  land. 

II. 

They  stand  white  stairs   of  heaven, — 

stand  a  line 

Of  lifting,  endless,  and  eternal  white. 
They  look  upon  the  far  and  flashing  brine, 


Upon  the  boundless  plains,   the  broken 

height 

Of  Kamiakin's  battlements.    The  flight 
Of    time  is    underneath    their    untopp'd 

towers. 

They  seem  to  push  aside  the  moon  at  night, 
To  jostle  and  to  loose  the  stars.    The 

flowers 

Of  heaven  fall  about  their  brows  in  shin 
ing  showers. 

in. 

They  stand  in  line  of  lifted  snowy  isles 
High  held  above  the  toss'd  and  tumbled 

sea,— 

A  sea  of  wood  in  wild  unmeasured  miles: 
White  pyramids  of  Faith  where  man  is 

free; 
White  monuments  of  Hope  that  yet  shalj 

be 
The  mounts  of  matchless  and  immortal 

song 


164 


PICTURES. 


I  look  far  down  the  hollow  days;  I  see 
The  bearded  prophets,  simple-soul'd  and 

strong, 
That  strike  the  sounding  harp  and  thrill 

the  heeding  throng. 


IV. 

Serene  and  satisfied!  supreme!  as  lone 
As  God,  they  loom  like  God's  archangels 

churl'd; 

They  look  as  cold  as  kings  upon  a  throne; 
The  mantling  wings  of  night  are  crush'd 

and  curl'd 

As  feathers  curl.     The  elements  are  hurl'd 
From  off  their  bosoms,  and  are  bidden  go, 
Like  evil  spirits,  to  an  under- world. 
They  stretch  from  Cariboo  to  Mexico, 
A  line  of  battle-tents  in  everlasting  snow. 


WHERE  ROLLS  THE  OREGON. 

See  once  these  stately  scenes,  then  roam 

no  more; 
No  more  remains  on  earth  to  cultured 

eyes; 

The  cataract  comes  down,  a  broken  roar, 
The  palisades  defy  approach,  and  rise 
Green  moss'd  and  dripping  to  the  clouded 

skies. 

The  canon  thunders  with  its  full  of  foam, 
And  calls  loud-mouth'd,  and  all  the  land 

defies; 
The  mounts  make  fellowship  and  dwell  at 

home 

In  snowy  brotherhood  beneath  their  pur 
pled  dome. 

The  rainbows  swim  in  circles  round,  and 

rise 

Against  the  hanging  granite  walls  till  lost 
In  drifting  dreamy  clouds   and  dappled 

skies, 
A  grand  mosaic  intertwined  and  toss'd 


Along  the  mighty  canon,  bound  and  cross'd 
By  storms  of  screaming  birds  of  sea  and 

land; 
The  salmon  rush  below,  bright  red  and 

boss'd 

In  silver.     Tawny,  tall,  on  either  hand 
You  see  the  savage  spearman  nude  and 

silent  stand. 
Here  sweep  the  wide  wild  waters  cold  and 

white 

And  blue  in  their  far  depths;  divided  now 
By  sudden  swift  canoe  as  still  and  light 
As  feathers  nodding  from  the  painted  brow 
That  lifts  and  looks  from  out  the  imaged 

prow. 
Ashore  you  hear  the   papoose   shout   at 

play; 
The  cuii'd  smoke  comes  from  underneath 

the  bough 

Of  leaning  fir:  the  wife  looks  far  away 
And   sees  a   swift  slim  bark    divide   the 

dashing  spray. 

Slow  drift  adown  the  river's  level'd  deep, 
And  look  above;  lo,  columns!  woods!  the 

snow! 

The  rivers  rush  upon  the  brink  and  leap 
From  out  the  clouds  three  thousand  feet 

below, 

And  land  afoam  in  tops  of  firs  that  grow 
Against  your  river's  rim:  they  plash,  they 

play 
In  clouds,  now  loud  and  now  subdued  and 

slow, 
A  thousand  thunder  tones;  they  swing  and 

sway 
In  idle  winds,  long  leaning  shafts  of  shin 

ing  spray. 

An   Indian   summer-time  it   was,  long 

past, 

We  lay  on  this  Columbia,  far  below 
The  stormy  water  falls,    and    God    had 

cast 
Us     heaven's     stillness.      Dreamily   and 

slow 


PICTURES. 


I6S 


We  drifted  as  the  light  bark  chose  to  go. 
An  ludian  girl  with  ornaments  of  shell 
Began  to  sing The  stars  may  hold  such 

flow 
Of  hair,  such  eyes,  but  rarely  earth.  There 

fell 
A  sweet  enchantment  thatpossess'd  me  as 

a  spell. 

We     saw    the    elk    forsake    the    sable 

wood, 
Step   quick    across    the  rim   of    shining 

sand, 
Breast  out  unscared  against  the  flashing 

flood, 

Then  brisket  deep  with  lifted  antlers  stand, 
And    ears    alert,    look    sharp    on    either 

hand, 
Then  whistle  shrill  to  dam  and  doubting 

fawn 
To  cross,  then  lead  with  black  nose  to  the 

land. 
They  cross'd,   they  climb'd  the   heaving 

hills,  were  gone, 
A  sturdy  charging  line  with  crooked  sabers 

drawn. 


Then  black  swans  cross'd  us  slowly  low 
and  still; 

Then  other  swans,  wide-wing'd  and  white 
as  snow, 

Flew  overhead  and  topp'd  the  timber'd 
hill, 

And  call'd  and  sang  afar,  coarse-voiced  and 
slow, 

Till  sounds  roam'd  lost  in  somber  firs  be 
low  .... 

Then  clouds  blew  in,  and  all  the  sky  was 
cast 

With  tumbled  and  tumultuous  clouds  that 
grow 

Red  thunderbolts A  flash!  A  thunder- 
blast! 

The  clouds  were  rent,  and  lo!  Mount  Hood 
hung  white  and  vast. 


PICTUEE  OF  A  BULL. 

Once,    morn    by  morn,    when    snowy 

mountains  flamed 
With  sudden  shafts  of  light  that  shot  a 

flood 

Into  the  vale  like  fiery  arrows  aim'd 
At  night  from  mighty  battlements,  there 

stood 
Upon  a  cliff  high-limn'd  against   Mount 

Hood, 
A  matchless  bull,  fresh  forth  from   sable 

wold, 
And  standing  so  seem'd  grander   'gainst 

the  wood 
Than  winged  bull  that  stood  with  tips  of 

gold 
Beside   the  brazen   gates   of   Nineveh   of 

old. 

A  time   he   toss'd  the  dewy  turf,   and 

then 
Stretch'd  forth  his    wrinkled    neck,    and 

loud 

He  call'd  above  the  far  abodes  of  men 
Until  his  breath  became  a  curling  cloud 
And  wreathed  about   his  neck   a    misty 

shroud. 

He  then  as  sudden  as  he  came  pass'd  on 
With  lifted  head,  majestic  and  most  proud, 
And  lone  as  night  in  deepest  wood  with 
drawn 

He  roamed  in   silent  rage   until  another 
dawn. 

What  drove  the  hermit  from  the  valley 

herd, 
What  cross  of  love,  what  cold  neglect  of 

kind, 
Or    scorn    of    unpretending    worth    had 

stirr'd 
The  stubborn  blood  and  drove  him  forth 

to  find 

A  fellowship  in  mountain  cloud  and  wind, 
I    ofttime  wonder'd    much;    and   ofttime 

thought 


i66 


PICTURES. 


The    beast    betray'd    a  royal   monarch's 

niind, 

To  lift  above  the  low  herd's  common  lot, 
And  make  them  hear  him  still  when  they 

had  fain  forgot. 


VAQUEKO. 

His  broad -brimm'd  hat  pnsh'd  back  with 

careless  air, 

The  proud  vaquero  sits  his  steed  as  free 
As   winds   that  toss  his   black  abundant 

hair. 

No  rover  ever  swept  a  lawless  sea 
With  such  a  haught  and  heedless  air  as  he 
Who  scorns    the  path,  and  bounds  with 

swift  disdain 

Away,  a  peon  born,  yet  born  to  be 
A    splendid  king;  behold  him  ride,  and 

reign. 

How  brave  he  takes  his  herds  in  brand 
ing  days, 

On  timber'd  hills  that  belt  about  the  plain; 
He  climbs,  he  wheels,  he  shouts  through 

winding  ways 

Of  hiding  ferns  and  hanging  fir;  the  rein 
Is  loose,  the  rattling   spur  drives   swift; 

the  mane 
Blows  free;  the  bullocks  rush  in  storms 

before; 
They  turn  with  lifted   heads,  they  rush 

again, 
Then  sudden  plunge  from  out  the  wood, 

and  pour 
A  cloud  upon  the  plain  with  one  terrific 

roar. 

Now  sweeps  the  tawny  man  on  stormy 

steed, 
His  gaudy  trappings  toss'd    about    and 

blown 

About  the  limbs  as  lithe  as  any  reed; 
The  swift  long  lasso  twirl'd  above  is  thrown 


From   flying  hand;  the  fall,  the  fearful 

groan 

Of  bullock  toil'd  and  tumbled  in  the  dust — 
The  black  herds  onward  sweep,  and  all 

disown 
The  fallen,   struggling  monarch  that  has 

thrust 
His  tongue  in  rage  and  roll'd  his  red  eyes 

in  disgust. 


IN  THE  GREAT  EMERALD  LAND. 

A  morn  in  Oregon!  The  kindled  camp 
Upon  the  mountain  brow  that  broke  below 
In  steep  and  grassy  stairway  to  the  damp 
And  dewy  valley,  snapp'd  and  flamed  aglow 
With  knots  of  pine.    Above,  the  peaks  of 

snow, 

With  under-belts  of  sable  forests,  rose 
And  flash'd  in  sudden  sunlight.     To  and 

fro 
And   far    below,    in   lines   and    winding 

rows, 
The  herders  drove  their  bands,  and  broke 

the  deep  repose. 

I  heard  their  shouts  like  sounding  hun 
ter^  horn, 

The  lowing  herds  made  echoes  far  away; 

When  lo!  the  clouds  came  driving  in  with 
morn 

Toward  the  sea,  as  fleeing  from  the  day. 

The  valleys  fill'd  with  curly  clouds.  They 
lay 

Below,  a  levell'd  sea  that  reach'd  and 
rolld 

And  broke  like  breakers  of  a  stormy  bay 

Against  the  grassy  shingle  fold  on  fold, 

So  like  a  splendid  ocean,  snowy  white  and 
cold. 

The  peopled  valley  lay  a  hidden  world, 
The  shouts  were  shouts  of  drowning  men 
that  died, 


"Behold!    the  sun  bathes  in  a  silver  sea  o\ 
clouds." 


hand;  tbo  fall,  the  fearful 

I'd  auti  tumbled  in  the  dust — 
I  sweep,  and  all 

•    *ggling  monarch  that  has 
iad  roll'd  bis  red  eye« 


H 
ing  i 

On  tint  he »• 

He  climb; 

windi 

Of  1. 


• 
Is  loose,  the  r»ttiing  spur  «. 

the  mane 
Blows  free;  the  Imllocks  rush  ».  & 

before; 
They  turn  with  lifted   Loads, 

•gain, 
Then  sudden  plunge  from  out  the  w 

and  pour 
A  cloud  upon  the  plain  vith  one  lei 

roar. 

How  twMi*  the  tawny  ma,:  on  stc 


His  gaudy  trapping!  toss'd 

blown 

About  the  limbs  as  lithe  as  ai  > 
The  swift  long  lasso  twirl'd  abo1 


THE  -  KEAT  EMERALD  LAND. 

ttorn  The  kindled  camp 

the  &  a  tain  brow  that  broke  below 

<  ;   ,  ssy  stairway  to  the  damp 

lewy  •  yt  snapp'd  and  flamed  aglow 

knot-  no,     Above,  the  peaks  of 

sable  forests,  rose 

.     To  and 

broke 

bun- 

-vay; 
.  with 

rom  the  day. 
:ds.   They 

xh*d   and 

jv  stormy  bay 
i  on  fold, 
white  and 


dan  world, 
wning  men 


PICTURES. 


167 


The    broken     clouds   along    the    border 

curl'd, 
And  bent  the  grass  with  weighty  freight 

of  tide. 

A  savage  stood  in  silence  at  my  side, 
Then   sudden  threw    aback    his    beaded 

strouds 
And  stretch'd  his  hand  above  the  scene, 

and  cried, 

As  all  the  land  lay  dead  in  snowy  shrouds: 
"Behold!   the  sun  bathes  in  a   silver  sea 

of  clouds." 

Here  lifts  the  land  of  clouds!     Fierce 

mountain  forms, 
Made  white  with  everlasting  snows,  look 

down 
Through  mists  of  many  canons,  mighty 

storms 
That  stretch  from  Autumn's  purple,  drench 

and  drown 
The  yellow  hem  of   Spring.     Tall  cedars 

frown 
Dark-brow'd,  through  banner'd  clouds  that 

stretch  and  stream 
Above    the    sea    from    snowy   mountain 

crown. 
The  heavens  roll,  and  all  things  drift  or 

seem 
To  drift  about  and  drive  like  some  majestic 

dream. 

In  waning  Autumn  time,  when  purpled 
skies 

Begin  to  haze  in  indolence  below 

The  snowy  peaks,  you  see  black  forms 
arise, 

In  rolling  thunder  banks  above,  and 
throw 

Quick  barricades  about  the  gleaming 
snow. 

The  strife  begins!  The  battling  seasons 
stand 

Broad  breast  to  breast.  A  flash!  Conten 
tions  grow 


Terrific.     Thunders  crash,  and  lightnings 

brand 
The  battlements.    The  clouds  possess  the 

conquered  land. 

The  clouds  blow  by,   the  swans    take 

loftier  flight, 

The  yellow  blooms  burst  out  upon  the  hill, 
The  purple  camas  comes  as  in  a  night, 
Tall  spiked  and  dripping  of  the  dews  that 

fill 
The  misty  valley.     Sunbeams  break  and 

spill 

Their  glory  till  the  vale  is  full  of  noon. 
The  roses  belt  the  streams,  no  bird  is  still. 
The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  meet  the  moon 
And  sing  of  summer,   born  thus  sudden 

full  and  soon. 


PILGKIMS  OF  THE  PLAINS. 

A  tale  half  told  and  hardly  understood; 
The  talk  of  bearded  men  that  chanced  to 

meet, 
That  lean'd  on  long  quaint  rifles  in  the 

wood, 

That  look'd  in  fellow  faces,  spoke  dis 
creet 

And  low,  as  half  in  doubt  and  ia  defeat 
Of  hope;  a  tale  it  was  of  lands  of  gold 
That  lay  toward   the  sun.     Wild  wing'd 

and  fleet 

It  spread  among  the  swift  Missouri's  bold 
Unbridled  men,  and  reach'd  to  where  Ohio 
roll'd. 

Then  long  chain'd  lines  of  yoked  and 

patient  steers; 
Then  long  white  trains  that  pointed  to  the 

west, 
Beyond  the  savage  west;  the  hopes  and 

fears 
Of   blunt,    untutor'd    men,    who    hardly 

guess'd 


i68 


PICTURES. 


Their  course;  the  brave  and  silent  women, 

dress'd 

In  homely  spun  attire,  the  boys  in  bands, 
The  cheery  babes  that  laugh'd  at  all,  and 

bless'd 
The  doubting  hearts  with  laughing  lifted 

hands! .... 
What  exodus  for  far  untraversed  lands! 

The  Plains!   The  shouting  drivers  at  the 

wheel; 
The  crash  of  leather  whips;  the  crush  and 

roll 
Of  wheels;  the  groan  of  yokes  and  grinding 

steel 

And  iron  chain,  and  lo!  at  last  the  whole 
Vast  line,  that  reach'd  as  if  to  touch  the 

goal, 
Began  to  stretch    and  stream  away  and 

wind 

Toward  the  west,  as  if  with  one  control; 
Then  hope  loom'd  fair,  and  home  lay  far 

behind; 
Before,  the  boundless  plain,  and  fiercest 

of  their  kind. 

At  first  the  way  lay  green  and  fresh  as 

seas, 

And  far  away  as  any  reach  of  wave; 
The  sunny  streams  went  by  in  belt  of  trees; 
And   here  and  there  the  tassell'd  tawny 

brave 
Swept  by  011  horse,  look'd  back,  stretch'd 

forth  and  gave 
A  yell   of  hell,   and   then  did  wheel  and 

rein 
Awhile,  and  point  away,  dark-brow'd  and 

grave, 

Into  the  far  and  dim  and  distant  plain 
With    signs    and    prophecies,   and    then 

plunged  on  again. 

Some  hills  at  last  began  to  lift  and  break; 
Some  streams  began  to  fail  of  wood  and 
tide, 


The  somber  plain  began  betime  to  take 
A  hue  of  weary  brown,  and  wild  and  wide 
It  stretch'd  its  naked  breast  on  every  side. 
A  babe  was  heard  at  last  to  cry  for  bread 
Amid  the  deserts;  cattle  low'd  and  died, 
And  dying  men  went  by  with  broken  tread, 
And  left  a  long  black  serpent  line  of  wreck 
and  dead. 

Strange  hunger'd  birds,  black-wing'd  and 

still  as  death, 
And  crown'd  of  red  with  hooked  beaks, 

blew  low 
And  close  about,  till  we  could  touch  their 

breath — 
Strange  unnamed   birds,   that   seem'd  to 

come  and  go 

In  circles  now,  and  now  direct  and  slow, 
Continual,  yet  never  touch  the  earth; 
Slim  foxes  shied  and  shuttled  to  and  fro 
At  times  across  the  dusty  weary  dearth 
Of  life,  look'd  back,  then  sank  like  crickets 

in  a  hearth. 

Then  dust  arose,   a  long  dim  line  like 

smoke 
From   out   of    riven   earth.     The  wheels 

went  groaning  by, 

The  thousand  feet  in  harness  and  in  yoke, 
They  tore  the  ways  of  ashen  alkali, 
And  desert  winds  blew  sudden,  swift  and 

dry. 

The  dust!  it  sat  upon  and  fill'd  the  train! 
It  seem'd  to  fret  and  fill  the  very  sky. 
Lo!  dust  upon  the  beasts,   the  tent,  the 

plain, 
And  dust,  alas!  on  breasts  that  rose  not 

up  again. 

They  sat  in  desolation  and  in  dust 

By  dried-up  desert  streams;  the  mother's 

hands 

Hid  all  her  bended  face;  the  cattle  thrust 
Their  tongues  and  faintly  call'd  across  the 

lands. 


PICTURES. 


169 


The  babes,  that  knew  not  what  the  way 
through  sands 

Could  mean,  did  ask  if  it  would  end  to 
day  

The  panting  wolves  slid  by,  red-eyed,  in 
bands 

To  pools  beyond.  The  men  look'd  far 
away, 

And  silent  deemed  that  all  a  boundless 
desert  lay. 

They  rose  by  night;  they  struggled  on 
and  on 

As  thin  and  still  as  ghosts;  then  here  and 
there 

Beside  the  dusty  way  before  the  dawn, 

Men  silent  laid  them  down  in  their  de 
spair, 

And  died.  But  woman!  Woman,  frail  as 
fair! 

May  man  have  strength  to  give  to  you 
your  due; 

You  falter'd  not,  nor  murmur'd  any 
where, 

You  held  your  babes,  held  to  your  course, 
and  you 

Bore  on  through  burning  hell  your  double 
burdens  through. 

Men  stood  at  last,  the  decimated  few, 
Above  a   land   of  running  streams,  and 

they? 

They  push'd  aside  the  boughs,  and  peer 
ing  through 

Beheld  afar  the  cool,  refreshing  bay; 
Then   some  did   curse,    and   some    bend 

hands  to  pray; 
But   some  look'd  back  upon  the  desert, 

wide 
And  desolate  with  death,    then   all    the 

day 
They  mourned.     But  one,   with   nothing 

left  beside 
His  dog  to   love,  crept  down  among  the 

ferns  and  died. 


THE  HEROES  OF  MY  WEST. 

I  stand  upon  the  green  Sierra's  wall; 
Toward  the  east,  beyond  the  yellow  grass, 
I  see  the  broken  hill-tops  lift  and  fall, 
Then  sands  that  shimmer  like  a  sea  of 

glass 

There  lies  the  nation's  great  high  road  of 

dead. 

Forgotten  aye,  unnumber'd,  and,  alas ! 
Unchronicled  in  deed  or  death;  instead, 
The  new  aristocrat    lifts   high    a   lordly 

head. 

My  brave  and   unremember'd    heroes, 

rest; 

You  fell  in  silence,  silent  lie  and  sleep. 
Sleep  on  unsung,  for  this,  I   say,   were 

best: 
The    world    to-day   has    hardly  time   to 

weep; 
The   world    to-day    will    hardly    care   to 

keep 
In    heart   her    plain    and    unpretending 

brave. 
The  desert   winds,   they   whistle  by  and 

sweep 
About    you;  brown'd  and  russet   grasses 

wave 
Along   a    thousand   leagues   that  lie   one 

common  grave. 

The  proud  and  careless  pass  in  palace 

car 
Along  the  line  you  blazon'd  white  with 

bones; 
Pass   swift  to  people,   and  possess   and 

mar 
Your  lands  with  monuments  and  letter'd 

stones 
Unto  themselves.   Thank  God!  this  waste 

disowns 
Their  touch.     His  everlasting   hand  has 

drawn 

A  shining  line  around  you.     Wealth  be 
moans 


170 


PICTURES. 


The  waste  your  splendid  grave  employs. 

Sleep  on, 
No  hand  shall  touch  your  dust  this  side 

of  God  and  dawn. 

I  let  them  stride  across  with  grasping 

hands 
And  strive  for  brief  possession;  mark  and 

line 

With  lifted  walls  the  new  divided  lands, 
And  gather  growing  herds  of  lowing  kine. 
I  could  not  covet  these,  could  not  confine 
My   heart   to  one;   all  seem'd  to  me  the 

same, 

And  all  below  my  mountain  home,  divine 
And  beautiful,  held  in  another's  name, 
As  if   the  herds    and   lands    were    mine, 
All  mine  or  his,  all  beautiful  the  same. 

I  have  not  been,  shall  not  be,  under 
stood; 

I  have  not  wit,  nor  will,  to  well  explain, 

But  that  which  men  call  good  I  find  not 
good. 

The  lands  the  savage  held,  shall  hold  again, 

The  gold  the  savage  spurn'd  in  proud  dis 
dain 

For  centuries;  go,  take  them  all;  build 
high 

Your  gilded  temples;  strive  and  strike  and 
strain 

And  crowd  and  controvert  and  curse  and 
lie 

In  church  and  State,  in  town  and  citadel, 
and. . .  .die. 

And  who  shall  grow  the  nobler  from  it 

all? 
The  mute   and  unsung    savage  loved  as 

true,  — 
He  felt,  as  grateful  felt,  God's  blessings 

fall 

About  his  lodge  and  tawny  babes  as  you 
J>  temples, — Moslem,  Christian,  infidel,  or 

Jew. 


....The   sea,   the  great   white,    braided, 

bounding  sea, 

Is  laughing  in  your  face;  the  arching  blue 
Remains  to  God;  the  mountains  still  are 

free, 
A  refuge  for  the  few  remaining  tribes  and 

me. 

Your  cities!  from  the  first  the  hand  of 

God 
Has  been  against  them;  sword  and  flood 

and  flame, 
The  earthquake's  march,  and  pestilence, 

have  trod 

To  undiscerning  dust  the  very  name 
Of  antique  capitals;  and  still  the  same 
Sad  destiny  besets  the  battlefields 
Of    Mammon  and  the  harlot's  house  of 

shame. 
Lo!    man    with     monuments    and    lifted 

shields 
Against  his  city's  fate.     A  flame!  his  city 

yields. 


ENGLAND. 

Thou,  mother  of  brave  men,  of  nations! 
Thou, 

The  white-brow'd  Queen  of  bold  white- 
bearded  Sea! 

Thou  wert  of  old  ever  the  same  as  now, 

So  strong,  so  weak,  so  tame,  so  fierce,  so 
bound,  so  free, 

A  contradiction  and  a  mystery; 

Serene,  yet  passionate,  in  ways  thine  own. 

Thy  brave  ships  wind  and  weave  earth's 
destiny. 

The  zones  of  earth,  aye,  thou  hast  set  and 
sown 

All  seas  in  bed  of  blossom'd  sail,  as  some 
great  garden  blown. 

LONDON. 

Above  yon  inland  populace  the  skies 
Are  pink  and  mellow'd  soft  in  rosy  light. 


PICTURES. 


171 


The  crown  of  earth!     A  halo  seems  to  rise 
And  hang  perpetual  above  by  night, 
And  dash  by  day  the  heavens,  till  the 

sight 

Betrays  the  city's  presence  to  the  wave. . . 
Yon  hear  a  hollow  sound  as  of  the  might 
Of  seas;  you  see  the  march  of  fair  and 

brave 
In    millions;    moving,    moving,    moving 

toward — a  grave. 

ST.  PAUL'S. 

I  see  above  a  crowded  world  a  cross 
Of  gold.    It  grows  like  some  great  cedar 

tree 

Upon  a  peak  in  shroud  of  cloud  and  moss, 
Made  bare  and  bronzed  in  far  antiquity. 
Stupendous  pile!     The  grim  Yosernite 
Has  rent  apart  his  granite  wall,  and  thrown 
Its  rugged  front  before  us. ...  Here  I  see 
The  strides  of  giant  men  in  cryptic  stone, 
And  turn,  and  slow  descend  where  sleep 

the  great  alone. 

The  mighty  captains  have  come  home 

to  rest; 

The  brave  return'd  to  sleep  amid  t  he  brave. 
The  sentinel  that  stood  with  steely  breast 
Before  the  fiery  hosts  of  France,  and  gave 
The  battle-cry  that  roll'd,  receding  wave 
On  wave,  the  foeman  flying  back  and  far, 
Is  here.    How  still!    Y'et  louder  now  the 

grave 

Than  ever-crashing  Belgian  battle-car 
Or  blue  and  battle-shaken   seas  of  Tra 
falgar. 

The  verger  stalks  in  stiff  importance  o'er 
The  hollow,  deep,  and  strange  responding 

stones; 

He  stands  with  lifted  staff  unchid  before 
The    forms    that    once    had    crush'd    or 

fashion'd  thrones, 
Aoid   coldly   points   you  out  the  coffin'd 

bones: 


He  stands  composed  where  armies  could 

not  stand 

A  little  time  before. . .  .The  hand  disowns 
The  idle  sword,  and  now  instead  the  grand 
And  golden  cross  makes  sign  and  takes 

austere  command. 

WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

The  Abbey  broods  beside    the   turbid 

Thames; 

Her  mother  heart  is  filled  with  memories; 
Her  every  niche  is  stored  with  storied 

names; 

They  move  before  me  like  a  mist  of  seas. 
I  am  confused,  and  made  abash'd  by  these 
Most    kingly    souls,    grand,    silent,    and 

severe. 

I  am  not  equal,  I  should  sore  displease 
The  living.... dead.     I   dare  not    enter; 

drear 
And  stain'd  in  storms  of  grander  days  all 

things  appear. 

I  go!  but  shall  I  not  return  again 
When  art  has  taught  me  gentler,  kindlier 

skill, 
And  time  has  given  force  and  strength  of 

strain? 

I  go!    O  ye  that  dignify  and  fill 
The  chronicles  of  earth!     I  would  instil 
Into  my  soul  somehow  the  atmosphere 
Of  sanctity  that  here  usurps  the  will; 
But  go;  I  seek  the  tomb  of  one— a  peer 
Of   peers — whose  dust  a  fool  refused  to 

cherish  here. 

AT  LORD  BYRON'S  TOMBO 

O  Master,  here  I  bow  before  a  shrine; 
Before  the  lordliest  dust  that  ever  yet 
Moved  animate  in  human  form  divine. 
Lo!  dust  indeed  to  dust.  The  mold  is 

set 

Above  thee  and  the  ancient  walls  are  wet, 
And  drip  all  day  in  dank  and  silent  gloom, 
As  if  the  cold  gray  stones  could  not  forget 


172 


PICTURES. 


Thy  great  estate  shrunk  to  this  somber 

room, 
But  lean  to  weep  perpetual  tears   above 

thy  tomb. 

Before  me  lie  the  oak-crown'd  Annesley 

hills, 
Before  me  lifts  the  ancient  Annesley  Hall 

Above  the  mossy  oaks A  picture  fills 

With   forms   of  other  days.      A    maiden 

tall 

And  fair;  a  fiery  restless  boy,  with  all 
The  force  of  man!  a  steed  that  frets  with 
out; 

A  long  thin  sword  that  rusts   upon  the 
wall .... 

The  generations  pass Behold!  about 

The    ivied    hall  the  fair-hair'd    children 
sport  and  shout. 

A   bay  wreath,  wound  by  Ina  of    the 

West, 
Hangs  damp  and  stain'd  upon  the  dark 

gray  wall, 
Above  thy  time  soil'd  tomb  and  tatter'd 

crest; 
A   bay  wreath  gather'd  by  the  seas  that 

call 

To  orient  Cathay,  that  break  and  fall 
On     shell-lined    shores     before    Tahiti's 

breeze. 
A  slab,   a  crest,  a  wreath,  and'  these  are 

all 

Neglected,  tatter'd,  torn;  yet  only  these 
The  world  bestows  for  song  that  rivall'd 

singing  seas. 

A  bay- wreath  wound  by  one  more  truly 

brave 

Than  Shastan;  fair  as  thy  eternal  fame, 
She  sat  and  wove  above  the  sunset  wave, 


And  wound  and  sang  thy  measures  and 

thy  name. 
'Twas  wound  by  one,  yet  sent  with  one 

acclaim 

By  many,  fair  and  warm  as  flowing  wine, 
And  purely  true,    and    tall    as   growing 

flame, 
That  list  and  lean  in  moonlight's  mellow 

shine 
To  tropic  tales  of  love  in  other  tongues. 

than  thine. 


I  bring  this  idle  reflex  of  thy  task, 
And  my  few  loves,  to  thy  forgotten  tomb; 
I  leave  them  here;  and  here  all  pardon  ask 
Of  thee,  and  patience  ask  of  singers  whom 
Thy  majesty  hath  silenced.     I  resume 
My  staff,  and  now  my  face  is  to  the  West; 
My  feet  are  worn;  the  sun  is  gone,  a  gloom 
Has  mantled  Hucknall,  and  the  minstrel's 

zest 
For  fame  is  broken  here,  and  here  he  pleads 

for  rest. 


TO  REST  AT  LAST.* 

What  wonder  that  I  swore  a  prophet's 

oath 
Of    after   days I  push'd   the  boughs 

apart, 
I  stood,  look'd  forth,  and  then  look'dback, 

all  loath 
To  leave  my  shadow'd  wood.     I  gather'd 

heart 

From  veryfearfulness;  with  sudden  start 
I  plunged  in  the  arena;  stood  a  wild 

Uncertain  thing,  all  artless,  all  in  art 

The  brave  approved,  the  fair  lean'd  fair  and 

smiled, — 


•These  final  verses  are  peculiarly  descriptive  of  the  home  I  have  built  here  on  the  Rights  for  my  declining 
years;  although  written  and  published  in  London-Songs  of  the  Sunlands-in  1873.  True,  my  strong  love 
of  a  home  of  my  own,  woods,  and  "a  careless  ordered  garden "  led  me  to  settle  down  in  other  lands  more  than 


PICTURES. 


173 


The  lions  touch  with  velvet-touch  a  timid 
child. 

But  now  enough  of  men.    Enough,  brief 

day 

Of  tamer  life.     The  court,  the  castle  gate 
That  open'd  wide  along  the  pleasant  way, 
The  gracious  converse  of  the  kingly  great 
Had  made  another  glad  and  well  elate 
With  hope.     A  world  of  thanks;  but  lam 

grown 

Aweary I  am  not  of  this  estate; 

The   poor,    the   plain    brave    border-men 

alone 
Were  my  first  love,  and  these  I  will  not 

now  disown. 

I  know  a  grassy  slope  above  the  sea, 
The  utmost  limit  of  the  westmost  land. 
In  savage,  gnarl'd,  and  antique  majesty 
The  great  trees  belt  about  the  place,  and 

stand 
In  guard,    with    mailed   limb    and   lifted 

hand, 

Against  the  cold  approaching  civic  pride. 
The   foamy  brooklets  seaward   leap;    the 

bland 
Still  air  is  fresh  with  touch  of  wood  and 

tide, 
And  peace,  eternal  peace,   possesses  wild 

and  wide. 

Here  I  return,  here  I  abide  and  rest; 

Some  flocks  and  herds  shall  feed  along  the 
stream; 

Some  corn  and  climbing  vines  shall  make 
us  blest 

With  bread  and  luscious  fruit The  sun 
ny  dream 

Of  wampum  men  in  moccasins  that  seem 

To  come  and  go  in  silence,  girt  in  shell, 


Before  a  sun-clad  cabin-door,  I  deem 
The  harbinger  of  peace.     Hope  weaves  her 

spell 
Again  about  the  wearied  heart,  and  all  is 

well. 

Here  I  shall  sit  in  sunlit  life's  decline 
Beneath    my    vine   and    somber    verdant 

tree. 
Some  tawny  maids  in  other  tongues  than 

mine 

Shall  minister.     Some  memories  shall  be 
Before  me.     I  shall  sit  and  I  shall  see, 
That  last  vast  day  that  dawn  shall  rein- 
spire, 

The  sun  fall  down  upon  the  farther  sea, 
Fall  wearied  down  to  rest,  and  so  retire, 
A  splendid  sinking  isle  of  far-off  fading 
fire. 


BEFOEE  COETEZ  CAME! 

But  see!    The  day-king  hurls  a  dart 
At  darkness,  and  his  cold  black  heart 
Is  pierced;  and  now,  compell'd  to  flee, 
Flies  bleeding  to  the  hollow'd  sea. 
And  now,  behold,  she  radiant  stands, 
And  lifts  her  round  brown  jewell'd  hands 
Unto  the  broad,  unfolding  sun, 
And  hails  him  Tonatiu  and  King 
With  hallow'd  mien  and  holy  prayer. 
Her  fingers  o'er  some  symbols  run, 
Her  knees  are  bow'd  in  worshipping 
Her  God,  beheld  when  thine  is  not, 
In  form  of  faith  long,  long  forgot. 

Again  she  lifts  her  brown  arms  bare, 
Far  flashing  in  their  bands  of  gold 
And  precious  stones,  rare,  rich,  and  old. 
Was  ever  mortal  half  so  fair  ? 


once  and  in  places  widely  different  from  this  which  I  had  fancied  and  pictured  long,  long  ago,  but  I  was  never 
well  or  at  all  content  in  any  place  till  now.  Even  the  people  about  me,  unworldly,  dreamful,  silent  and  of 
other  lands  and  tongues  are,  like  my  home,  the  same  I  had  pictured  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  and 
I  joy  in  this,  that  I  have  been  thus  true  to  myself.  The  only  departure  from  my  dear  first  plan  is  in  rinding  my 
ideal  home  by  the  glorious  gate  of  San  Francisco  instead  of  the  somber  fir  set  sea  bank  far  to  the  north,  "Where 
Rolls  the  Oregon." 


PICTURES. 


Was  ever  such  a  wealth  of  hair? 
Was  ever  such  a  plaintive  air? 
Was  ever  such  a  sweet  despair? 

Still  humbler  now  her  form  she  bends; 
Still  higher  now  the  flame  ascends: 
She  bares  her  bosom  to  the  sun. 
Again  her  jewell'd  fingers  run 
In  signs  and  sacred  form  and  prayer. 
She  bows  with  awe  and  holy  air 
In  lowly  worship  to  the  sun; 
Then  rising  calls  her  lover's  name, 
And  leaps  into  the  leaping  flame. 

I  do  not  hear  the  faintest  moan, 
Or  sound,  or  syllable,  or  tone. 
The  red  flames  stoop  a  moment  down, 
As  if  to  raise  her  from  the  ground; 
They  whirl,  they  swirl,  they  sweep  around 
With  lightning  feet  and  fiery  crown; 
Then  stand  up,  tall,  tip-toed,  as  one 
Would  hand  a  soul  up  to  the  sun. 


IN  THE  SIERRAS. 

"  No,  not  so  lonely  now — I  love 
A  forest  maiden:  she  is  mine 
And  on  Sierras'  slopes  of  pine, 
The  vines  below,  the  snows  above, 
A  solitary  lodge  is  set 
Within  a  fringe  of  water'd  firs; 
And  there  my  wigwam  fires  burn, 
Fed  by  a  round  brown  patient  hand, 
That  small  brown  faithful  hand  of  hers 
That  never  rests  till  my  return. 
The  yellow  smoke  is  rising  yet; 
Tiptoe,  and  see  it  where  you  stand 
Lift  like  a  column  from  the  land. 

"  There  are  no  sea-gems  in  her  hair, 
No  jewels  fret  her  dimpled  hands, 
And  half  her  bronzen  limbs  are  bare. 
Her  round  brown  arms  have  golden  bands, 
Broad,  rich,  and  by  her  cunning  hands 


Cut  from  the  yellow  virgin  ore, 

And  she  does  not  desire  more. 

I  wear  the  beaded  wampum  belt 

That  she  has  wove— the  sable  pelt 

That  she  has  fringed  red  threads  around; 

And  in  the  morn,  when  men  are  not, 

I  wake  the  valley  with  the  shot 

That  brings  the  brown  deer  to  the  ground. 

And  she  beside  the  lodge  at  noon 

Sings  with  the  wind,  while  baby  swings 

In  sea-shell  cradle  by  the  bough — 

Sings  low,  so  like  the  clover  sings 

With  swarm  of  bees;  I  hear  her  now, 

I  see  her  sad  face  through  the  moon .... 

Such    songs! — would  earth  had  more  of 

such! 

She  has  not  much  to  say,  and  she 
Lifts  never  voice  to  question  me 
In  aught  I  do . . .  .and  that  is  much. 
I  love  her  for  her  patient  trust, 
And  my  love's  forty-fold  return — 
A  value  I  have  not  to  learn 
As  you ....  at  least,  as  many  must .... 

....  ' '  She  is  not  over  tall  or  fair; 
Her  breasts  are  curtain'd  by  her  hair, 
And  sometimes,  through  the  silken  fringe, 
I  see  her  bosom's  wealth,  like  wine 
Burst  through  in  luscious  ruddy  tinge — 
And  all  its  wealth  and  worth  are  mine. 
I  know  not  that  one  drop  of  blood 
Of  prince  or  chief  is  in  her  veins: 
I  simply  say  that  she  is  good, 
And  loves  me  with  pure  womanhood. 
....  When  that  is  said,    why,  what  re 
mains?" 
MOUNT  SHASTA,  1872. 


PROPHECY. 

When  spires   shall  shine  on  the  Ama 
zon's  shore, 

From  temples  of  God,  and  time  shall  have 
roll'd 


PICTURES. 


'75 


Like  a  scroll  from  the  border  the  limitless 
wold; 

When  the  tiger  is  tamed,  and  the  mono  no 
more 

Swings  over  the  waters  to  chatter  and  call 

To  the  crocodile  sleeping  in  rushes  and 
fern; 

When  cities  shall  gleam,  and  their  battle 
ments  burn 

In  the  sunsets  of  gold,  where  the  cocoa- 
nuts  fall, 

'Twill  be  something  to  lean  from  the 
stars  and  to  know 

That  the  engine,  red-mouthing  with  tur 
bulent  tongue, 

The  white  ships  that  come,  and  the  cargoes 
that  go, 

We  invoked  them  of  old  when  the  nations 
were  young: 

'Twill  be  something  to  know  that  we 

named  them  of  old, — 
That  we  said  to  the  nations,  Lo!  here  is 

the  fleece 
That  allures  to  the  rest,  and  the  perfectest 

peace, 
With  its  foldings  of  sunlight  shed  mellow 

like  gold: 

That  we  were  the  Carsons  in  kingdoms 

untrod, 
And  follow'd  the  trail  through  the  rustle  of 

leaves, 
And  stood  by  the  wave  where  solitude 

weaves 
Her  garments  of  mosses     and"  lonely  as 

God: 

That  we  did  make  venture  when  singers 

were  young, 
Inviting  from  Europe,  from  long-trodden 

lands 
That  are  easy  of  journeys,  and  holy  from 

hands 
Laid  upon  by  the  Masters  when  giants  had 

tongue: 


The  prophet  should  lead  us,  — and  lifting 
a  hand 

To  the  world  on  the  way,  like  a  white 
guiding  star, 

Point  out  and  allure  to  the  fair  and  un 
known, 

And  the  far,  and  the  hidden  delights  of  a 
land. 

Behold  my  Sierras!  there  singers  shall 

throng; 
Their  white  brows  shall  break  through  the 

wings  of  the  night 
As  the  fierce  condor  breaks  through  the 

clouds  in  his  flight; 
And  I  here  plant  the  cross  and  possess 

them  with  song. 


QUESTION? 

In  the  days  when  my  mother,  the  Earth, 

was  young, 
And  you  all  were  not,  nor  the  likeness  of 

you, 
She     walk'd     in     her    maidenly    prime 

among 
The    moonlit     stars     in     the    boundless 

blue. 

Then  the  great  sun  lifted  his  shining 

shield, 
And  he  flash'd  his  sword  as  the  soldiers 

do, 
And  he  moved  like  a  king  full  over  the 

field, 
And  he  look'd,  and  he  loved  her  brave  and 

true. 

And  looking  afar   from    the    ultimate 

rim, 

As  he  lay  at  rest  in  a  reach  of  light, 
He  beheld  her  walking  alone  at  night, 
When  the  buttercup  stars  in  their  beauty 

swim. 


176 


PICTURES. 


So  he  rose  up  flush'd  in  his  love,  and 

he  ran, 
And  he  reach'd  his  arms,  and  around  her 

waist 
He  wound  them  strong  like  a  love-struck 

man, 
And  he  kiss'd  and  embraced  her,  brave 

and  chaste. 

So  he  nursed  his  love  like  a  babe  at  its 

birth, 
And  he  warm'd  in  his  love  as  the  long 

years  ran, 
Then    embraced    her    again,    and    sweet 

mother  Earth 
Was  a  mother  indeed,  and  her  child  was 

man. 

The  sun  is  the  sire,  the  mother  is  earth! 
What  more  do  you  know  ?  what  more  do 

I  need? 

The  one  he  begot,  and  the  one  gave  birth, 
And  1  love  them  both,  and  let  laugh  at 

your  creed. 

And  who  shall  say  I  am  all  unwise 
In  my  great,  warm  faith  ?    Time  answers 

us  not: 

The  quick  fool   questions;  but    who  re 
plies  ? 

The     wise    man     hesitates,     hushed     in 
thought. 


THOMAS  OF  TIGRE.* 

King  of  Tigre,  -comrade  true 
Where  in  all  thine  isles  art  thou  ? 
Sailing  on  Fonseca  blue  ? 
Nearing  Amapala  now  ? 
King  of  Tigre,  where  art  thou  ? 

Battling  for  Antilles'  queen  ? 
Saber  hilt,  or  olive  bough  ? 
Crown  of  dust,  or  laurel  green? 
Roving  love,  or  marriage  vow? 
King  and  comrade,  where  art  thou? 

Sailing  on  Pacific  eeas  ? 
Pitching  tent  in  Pimo  now? 
Underneath  magnolia  trees? 
Thatch  of  palm,  or  , cedar  bough? 
Soldier  singer,  where  art  thou  ? 

Coasting  on  the  Oregon? 
Saddle  bow,  or  birchen  prow  ? 
Round  the  Isles  of  Amazon  ? 
Pampas,  plain,  or  mountain  brow? 
Prince  of  rovers,  where  art  thou  ? 


MRS.  FRANK  LESLIE. 

I  dream'd,  O  Queen,  of  thee,  last  night; 
I  can  but  dream  of  thee  to-day. 
But  dream?    Oh!  I  could  kneel  and  pray 
To  one,  who,  like  a  tender  light, 


*This  was  a  brave  old  boyhood  friend  in  the  Mount  Shasta  Days.  You  will  find  him  there  as  the  Prince 
in  my  "Life  Among  the  Modocs,"  "  Unwritten  Histery,  Paquita,"  "My  Life  Among  the  Indians,"  "My  Own 
Story  "  or  whatever  other  name  enterprising  or  piratical  publishers,  Europe  or  America,  may  have  chosen  to  give 
the  one  prose  book  Mulford  and  I  put  out  in  London  during  the  Modoc  war.  This  man,  Prince 
Thomas  now  of  Leon,  Nicaragua,  was  a  great  favorite  and  my  best  friend,  in  one  sense  for  years  in  Europe. 
He  had  passed  the  most  adventurous  life  conceivable,  at  one  time  having  been  king  of  an  island.  He  gloried  m 
the  story  of  his  wild  life,  spent  money  like  a  real  prince,  and  was  the  envy  and  admiration  of  fashionable 

D   "Where  in  all  the  world,  and  when,  did  he  get  so  much  money?"  once  asked  the  president  of  the  Savage 
"Well,  I  am  not  certain  whether  it  was  as  a  pirate  of  the  South  Seas  or  merely  as  a  brigand  of  Mexico,"  I 

Tbt  answer  coming  to  the  ears  of  Thomas,  he  so  far  from  being  angered  was  greatly  pleased  and  laughed 
heartily  over  it  with  some  friends  at  Lord  Houghton's  table. 


PICTURES. 


177 


Leads  ever  on  my  lonesome  way, 
And  will  not  pass— yet  will  not  stay. 

I  dream'd  we  roam'd  in  elden  land; 
I  saw  you  walk  in  splendid  state, 
With  lifted  head  and  heart  elate, 
And  lilies  in  your  whit  3  ripht  hand, 
Beneath  your  proud  Saint  Peter's  dome 
That,  silent,  lords  almighty  Rome. 

A  diamond  star  was  in  your  hair, 
Your  garments  were  of  gold  and  snow; 
And  men  did  turn  and  marvel  so, 
And  men  did  say,  How  matchless  fair! 
And  all  men  follow'd  as  you  pass'd; 
But  I  came  silent,  lone,  and  last. 

And  holy  men  in  sable  gown, 
And  girt  with  cord,  and  sandal  shod, 
Did  look  to  thee,  and  then  to  God. 
They  cross'd  themselves,  with  heads  held 

down; 

They  chid  themselves,  for  fear  that  they 
Should,  seeing  thee,  forget  to  pray. 

Men  pass'd,  men  spake  in  wooing  word; 
Men  pass'd,  ten  thousand  in  a  line. 
You  stood  before  the  sacred  shrine, 
You  stood  as  if  you  had  not  heard. 
And  then  you  turn'd  in  calm  command, 
And  laid  two  lilies  in  my  hand. 

O  Lady,  if  by  sea  or  land 
You  yet  might  weary  of  all  men, 
And  turn  unto  your  singer  then, 
And  lay  one  lily  in  his  hand, 
Lo!  I  would  follow  true  and  far 
As  seamen  track  the  polar  star. 

My  soul  is  young,  my  heart  is  strong; 
O  Lady,  reach  a  hand  to-day, 
And  thou  shalt  walk  the  milky  way, 
For  I  will  give  thy  name  to  song. 
Yea,  I  am  of  the  kings  of  thought, 
And  thou  shalt  live  when  kings  are  not. 


THE  POET. 

Yes,   I  am  a  dreamer.     Yet  while  you 

dream, 
Then  1  am  awake.     When  a  child,  back 

through 

The  gates  of  the  past  I  peer'd,  and  I  knew 
The  land  I  had  lived  in.     I  saw  a  broad 

stream, 
Saw  rainbows  that  compass'd  a  world  in 

their  reach; 

I  saw  n,y  beloved  go  down  on  the  beach; 
Saw  her  lean  to  this  earth,  saw  her  looking 

for  me 

As  shipmen  look  for  loved  ship  at  sea 

While  you  seek  gold  in  the  earth,  why,  I 
See  gold  in  the  steeps  of  the  starry  sky; 
And  which  do  you  think  has  the  fairer 

view 
Of  God  in  heaven— the  dreamer  or  you  » 


DYSPEPTIC. 

I  am  as   lone  as  lost   winds   on    some 

height; 

As  lone  as  yonder  leaning  moon  at  night, 
That    climbs,    like    some    sad,    noiseless. 

footed  nun, 

Far  up  against  the  steep  and  starry  height, 
As  if  on  holy  mission.     Yea,  as  one 
That  knows  no  ark,  or  isle,  or  resting- 
place, 

Or  chronicle  of  time,  or  wheeling  sun, 
I  drive  forever  on  through  endless  space. 
Like  some  lone  bird  in  everlasting  flight, 
My  lonesome  soul  sails  on  through  seas  of 
night. 

Alone  in  sounding  hollows  of  the  sea; 
Alone  on  lifted,  heaving  hills  of  foam! 
To  never  rest;  to  ever  rise  and  roam 
Where  never  kind  or   kindred   soul   may 

be; 
To  roam  where  ships  of  commerce  never 

ride, 
Sail  on,  and  so  forget  the  rest  of  shore; 


78 


PICTURES. 


To  hear  the  waves  complain,  as  if  they 
died; 

To  see  the  vast  waves  heave  for  ever 
more; 

To  know  that  no  ships  cross  or  measure 
these, 

My  shoreless,  strange,  and  most  uncom 
mon  seas. 

Oh!   who   art   thou,  veil'd   shape?    My 

soul  cries  out 
Through  mist  and  storm.     Lean  thou  to 

me! 
Come  nearer,  thou,  that  I  may  feel  and 

see 
Thy   wounded    side,    and    so    forget    all 

doubt! 

How  terrible  the  night!  I  kneel  tothee; 
I  clasp  thy  knees:  would  clamber  to  thy 

hair. 
As  one  shipwreck'd  on  some  broad,  broken 

sea 
Through   intermingled    oaths   and   awful 

shout, 

Uplifts  white  hands  and  prays  in  his  de 
spair, — 
So  now  my  curses  break  into  a  prayer. 

The  long  days  through  I  sit  and  sigh, 

alas ! 
For  love!     Lone,  beggar-like,  beside  the 

way 
I    sit   forlorn  in  lanes   where  Day  must 

pass. 
I    stretch   imploring    palms    toward   the 

Day, 
And  cry,  "(VDay!  but  give  me  love!    I 

die 

For  love!     I  let  all  other  gifts  go  by. 
Yea,  bring  me  but  one  love  that  runs  to 

waste, 
One  love  that   men  pass   by  in  heedless 

haste, 

And  I  will  kiss  thy  feet  and  ask  no  more 
From   all  To-morrow's    rich,    mysterious 

store." 


The  drear  days  mock  me  in  my  mute  re 
quest; 
The  dark  years  roll  like  breakers  on  the 

shore, 

And  die  in  futile  thunder.     As  in  jest, 
They  bring  bright,  empty  shells, — bring 

nothing  more. 
Oh,  say!  is  sweet  Love  dead  and  hid  from 

all 
Who  would  disdain  a  colder  touch  than 

his? 
Then  show  me  where  Love  lies.  Put  back 

the  pall. 

Lo!  I  will  fall  upon  his  face  and  kiss 
Sweet  Love  to  life  again;  or  I  will  lie, 
Lamenting,    prone  beside  his   dust,  and 

die. 

Behold!  my  love  has  brought  but  rue  and 

rime! 
I  loved  the  blushing,  bounding,  singing 

Spring: 
She  scarce  would  pause  a  day  to  hear  me 

sing. 

I  loved  her  sister,  golden  Summer-time: 
She  gather'd  close  her  robes  and  rustled 

past, 
Through    yellow    fields    of    corn.       She 

scorn'd  to  cast 

One  tender  look  of  love  or  hope  behind; 
But,  sighing,  died  upon  the  Autumn  wind. 
Oh,  then  I  loved  the  vast,  the  lonesome 

Night! 
She,  too,  pass'd  on,  and  perish'd  from  my 

sight. 

Say!  lives  there  naught  on  all  the  girdled 

world, 
That    may    survive    one    day    its    sorry 

birth? 
The  very  Moon  grows  thin  and  hunger- 

curl'd; 

The  ardent  Sun  forgets  his  love  of  Earth, 
And  turns,  dark-brow'd,  and  draws   his 

reach'd  arms  back, 


PICTURES. 


179 


The  while  she,  mourning,  moves  on  clad 

in  black. 
But  list!    I  once  did  hear  the  good  priest 

tell 

That  hell  is  everlasting.     Oh,  my  friend, 
To  think  that  there  is  aught  that  will  not 

end! 
Now  let  us  kneel  and  give  God  thanks  that 

hell  is  hell. 


VALE !  AMERICA.* 
Let  me  rise  and  go  forth.    A  far,  dim 

spark 

Illumes  my  pr,th.    The  light  of  my  day 
Hath  fled,  and  yot  am  I  far  away. 
The  bright,  bent  moon  has  dipp'd  her  horn 
In  the  darkling  sea.     High  up  in  the  dark 
The  wrinkled  old  lion,  he  looks  away 
To    the    east,    and   impatient    as    if    for 

morn .... 

I  have  gone  the  girdle  of  earth,  and  say, 
What  have  I  gain'd  but  a  temple  gray, 
Two  crow's  feet,  and  a  heart  forlorn? 

A  star  starts  yonder  like  a  soul  afraid! 
It  falls  like  a  thought  through  the  great 

profound. 

Fearfully  swift  and  with  never  a  sound, 
It  fades  into  nothing,  as  all  things  fade; 
Yea,  as  all  things  fail.     And  where  is  the 

leaven 
In  the  pride  of  a  name  or  a  proud  man's 

nod? 

Oh,  tiresome,  tiresome  stairs  to  heaven! 
Weary,  oh,  wearisome  ways  to  God! 
'Twere  better  to  sit  with  the  chin  on  the 

palni, 
Slow  tapping  the  sand,  come  storm,  come 

calm. 


I  have  lived  from  within  and  not  from 

without; 
I  have  drunk  from  a  fount,  have  fed  from 

a  hand 

That  no  man  knows  who  lives  upon  land; 
And  yet  my  soul  it  is  crying  out. 
I  care  not  a  pin  for  the  praise  of  men; 
But  I  hunger  for  love.     I  starve,  I  die, 
Each  day  of  my  life.     Ye  pass  me  by 
Each   day,    and  laugh   as   ye    pass;    and 

when 

Ye  come,  I  start  in  my  place  as  ye  come, 
And  lean,  and  would  speak, — but  my  lips 

are  dumb. 

Yon  sliding   stars   and   the  changeful 

moon. . . . 
Let  me  rest  on  the  plains  of  Lornbardy  for 

aye, 

Or  sit  down  by  this  Adrian  Sea  and  die. 
The  days  that  do  seem  as  some  afternoon 
They  all  are  here.     I  am  strong  and  true 
To  myself;  can  pluck  and  could    plant 

anew 

My  heart,  and  grow  tall;  could  come  to  be 
Another  being;  lift  bolder  hand 
And  conquer.     Yet  ever  will  come  to  me 
The  thought  that  Italia  is  not  my  land. 

Could  I  but  return  to  my  woods  once 

more, 

And  dwell  in  their  depths  as  I  have  dwelt, 
Kneel  in  their  mosses  as  I  have  knelt, 
Sit  where  the  cool  white  rivers  run, 
Away  from  the  world  and  half  hid  from 

the  sun, 
Hear  winds  in  the  wood  of  my  storm-torn 

shore, 

To  tread  where  only  the  red  man  trod, 
To  say  no  word,  but  listen  to  God! 
Glad  to  the  heart  with  listening, — 


*  I  do  not  like  this  bit  of  impatience,  nor  do  I  expect  any  one  else  to  like  it  and  only  preserve  it  here  as  a  sort 
of  landmark  or  journal  in  my  journey  through  life.  It  is  only  an  example  of  almost  an  entire  book,  written 
in  Italy.  I  had,  after  a  long  struggle  with  myself,  settled  down  in  Italy  to  remain,  as  I  believed,  and  as  you 
can  see  was  very  miserable,  and  wrote  accordingly. 


i8o 


PICTURES. 


It  seems  to  me  that  I  then  could  sing, 
And  sing  as  never  sung  man  before. 

But    deep-tangled   woodland  and  wild 
waterfall, 

0  farewell  for  aye,  till  the  Judgment  Day! 

1  shall  see  you  no  more,  O  land  of  mine, 
O  half -aware  land,  like  a  child  at  play! 

O  voiceless  and  vast  as  the   push'd-back 

skies! 

No  more,  blue  seas  in  the  blest  sunshine, 
No   more,    black  woods   where  the  white 
rise, 


No    more,    bleak  plains  where    the   high 

winds  fall, 
Or  the  red  man  keeps  or  the  shrill  birds 

call! 

I  must  find  diversion  with  another  kind: 
There  are  roads  on  the  land  and  roads  on 

the  sea; 

Take  ship  and  sail,  and  sail  till  I  find 
The  love  that  I  sought  from  eternity; 
Run  away  from  oneself,  take  ship  and  sail 
The    middle    white    seas;    see     turban 'd 

men, — 
Throw  thought  to  the  dogs  for  aye.     And 

when 

All  seas  are  travel'd  and  all  scenes  fail, 
Why,  then  this  doubtful,   cursed   gift  of 

verse 
May  save  me  from   death — or  something 

worse. 

My  hand  it  is  weary,  and  my  harp  un 
strung; 

And  where  is  the  good  that  I  pipe  or  sing, 
Fashion  new  notes,  or  shape  any  thing  ? 
The  songs  of  my  rivers  remain  unsung 
Henceforward  for  me But  a  man  shall 


From  the  far,  vast  valleys  of  the  Occi 
dent, 

With  hand  on  a  harp  of  gold,  and  with 
eyes 

That  lift  with  glory  and  a  proud  intent; 


Yet  so  gentle  indeed,  that  his  sad  heart 
strings 

Shall  thrill  to  the  heart  of  your  heart  as 
he  sings. 

Let  the  wind  sing  songs  in  the  lake-side 

reeds, 
Lo,   I  shall    be    less    than   the    indolent 

wind! 

Why  should  I  sow,  when  I  reap  and  bind 
And   gather  in  nothing  but    the   thistle 

weeds  ? 

It  is  best  I  abide,  let  what  will  befall; 
To  rest  if  I  can,  let  time  roll  by: 
Let  others  endeavor  to  learn,  while  I, 
With  naught  to  conceal,  with  much  to  re 
gret, 
Shall  sit  and  endeavor,  alone,  to  forget. 


Shall  I  shape  pipes  from  these  seaside 

reeds, 
And  play  for  the  children,  that  shout  and 

call? 
Lo!  men  they  have  mock'd  me  the  whole 

year  through! 
I  shall  sing  no  more  ...  I  shall  find  in  old 

creeds, 
And  in  quaint  old  tongues,  a  world  that  is 

new; 
And  these,  I  will  gather  the  sweets  of 

them  all. 

And  the  old-time  doctrines  and  the  old- 
time  signs, 
I  will   taste  of  them  all,   as  tasting  old 

wines. 


I  will  find  new  thought,  as  a  new-found 

vein 

Of  rock-lock'd  gold  in  my  far,  fair  West. 
I  will  rest  and  forget,  will  entreat  to  be 

blest; 
Take   up   new  thought    and   again   grow 

young; 

Yea,  take  a  new  world  as  one  born  again, 
And  never  hear  more  mine  own  mother 

tongue; 


PICTURES. 


181 


Nor  miss  it .     Why  should  I  ?     I  never  once 

heard, 
In  my  land's  language,  love's  one  sweet 

word. 


Did    I    court   fame,     or    the    favor    of 

man? 
Make  war  upon  creed,  or  strike  hand  with 

clan? 
I  sang  my  songs  of  the  sounding 

trees, 
As  careless  of  name  or  of  fame  as  the 


And  these  I  sang  for  the  love  of  these, 

And  the  sad  sweet  solace  they  brought  to 
me. 

I  but  sang  for  myself,  touch'd  here,  touch'd 
there, 

As  a  strong-wing'd  bird  that  flies  any 
where. 


....How  I  do  wander!     And  yet  why 

not? 

I  once  had  a  song,  told  a  tale  in  rhyme; 
Wrote  books,  indeed,  in  my  proud  young 

prime; 
I    aim'd     at     the    heart    like    a    musket 

ball; 
I    struck    cursed    folly    like    a     cannon 

shot,— 
And   where  is    the  glory   or   good    of    it 

all? 
Yet   these  did   I  write  for  my  land,   but 

this 
I  write  for  myself,— and  it  is  as  it  is. 


Yea,  storms  have  blown  counter  and 
shaken  me. 

And  yet  was  I  fashion'd  for  strife,  and 
strong 

And  daring  of  heart,  and  born  to  en 
dure; 

My  soul  sprang  upward,  my  feet  felt 
sure; 


My  faith  was  as  wide  as  a  wide-bough'd 

tree. 
But    there    be    limits;    and    a    sense    of 

wrong 

Forever  before  you  will  make  you  less 
A  man,  than  a  man  at  first  would  guess. 


Good   men  can  forgive — and,  they  say, 

forget 

Far  less   of   the   angel   than   Indian  was 

set 
In     my     fierce     nature.        And    I     look 

away 
To  a  land  that  is  dearer  than  this,  and 

say, 

"  I  shall  remember,  though  you  may  for 
get. 
Yea,    I   shall    remember    for    aye    and   a 

day 
The   keen   taunts   thrown  in  a  boy  face, 

when 
He  cried  unto  God  for  the  love  of  men." 


Enough,  ay  and  more  than  enough,  of 

this! 
I  know  that  the  sunshine  must  follow  the 

rain; 
And  if  this   be   the   winter,    why   spring 

again 
Must  come  in  its  season,  fall  blossom'd 

with  bliss. 
I  will  lean  to  the  storm,  though  the  winds 

blow  strong 

Yea,  the  winds  they  nave  blown  and  have 

shaken  me — 
As  the  winds  blow  songs  through  a  shat 

tered  tree, 
They  have  blown  this  broken  and  careless 

set  song. 


They  have  sung  this  song,  be  it  never 

bad; 

Have  blown  upon  me  and   play'd   upon 
me, 


182 


PICTURES. 


Have  broken  the  notes, — blown  sad,  blown 

glad; 

Just  as  the  winds  blow  fierce  and  free 
A  barren,    a  blighted,    and  a   cursed  fig 

tree. 
And    if    I    grow    careless    and   heed    no 

whit 

Whether  it  please  or  what  comes  of  it, 
Why,  talk  to  the  winds,  then,  and  not  to 

me. 
VENICE,  1874. 


THE  QUEST  OF  LOVE.* 

The  quest  of  love?     'Tis  the  quest  of 

troubles; 
'Tis  the  wind  through  the  woods  of  the 

Oregon. 
Sit  down,    sit  down,   for  the  world  goes 

on 

Precisely  the  same;  and  the  rainbow  bub 
bles 
Of    love,     they     gather,     or '  break,    or 

blow, 
Whether     you    bother    your    brain     or 

no; 
And  for  all  your  troubles   and  all  your 

tears, 
'Twere  just  the  same  in  a  hundred  years. 


By  the  populous  land,  or  the  lonesome 

sea, 
Lo!  these  were  the  gifts  of  the  gods  to 

men, — 

Three  miserable  gifts,  and  only  three: 
To     love,     to    forget,    and    to    die— and 

then? 

To  love  in  peril,  and  bitter-sweet  pain, 
And     then,     forgotten,     lie     down    and 

die: 
One  moment   of    sun,    whole  seasons  of 

rain, 


Then   night  is  roll'd  to  the  door  of  the 
sky. 


To   love?    To  sit   at   her    feet  and  to 

weep; 
To  climb  to  her  face,  hide  your  face  in 

her  hair; 
To  nestle  you   there  like  a   babe  in  its 

sleep, 
And,  too,  like  a  babe,  to  believe— it  stings 

there! 
To  love!   'Tis  to  suffer,     "Lie  close  to  my 

breast, 
Like  a  fair  ship  in  haven,  O  darling!"  I 

cried. 
"Your  round  arms  outreaching  to  heaven 

for  rest 
Make   signal  to   death." Death   came, 

and  love  died. 
To  forget?    To  forget,  mount  horse  and 

clutch  sword; 
Take  ship  and  make  sail  to  theice-prisoii'd 


Write  books  and  preach  lies;  range  lands; 

or  go  hoard 
A  grave  full  of  gold,  and  buy  wines— and 

drink  lees: 
Then  die;  and  die  cursing,  and  call  it  a 

prayer! 

Is  earth  but  a  top— a  boy-god's  delight, 
To  be  spun  for  his  pleasure,  while  man's 

despair 
Breaks   out   like  a   wail   of    the   damn'd 

through  the  night  ? 

Sit  down  in  the  darkness  and  weep  with 

me 
On  the  edge  of  the  world.     Lo,  love  lies 

dead! 
And  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  the  sky 

and  the  sea, 
Seem  shutting  together  as  a  book  that  is 

read. 


*  Fragment  from  a  long  poem  done  in  Italy. 


PICTURES. 


Yet  what  have  we  learn'd?    We  laugh'd 

with  delight 
In  the  morning  at  school,  and  kept  toying 

with  all 
Time's   silly  playthings.     Now,   wearied 

ere  night, 
We  must  cry  for  dark-mother,  her  cradle 

the  pall. 


'Twere  better  blow  trumpets  'gainst  love, 

keep  away 
That     traitorous    urchin    with     fire    or 

shower, 
Than  have  him  come  near  you  for  one  little 

hour. 
Take  physic,  consult  with  your  doctor,  as 

you 
Would     fight     a    contagion;     carry     all 

through 
The  populous  day  some  drug  that  smells 

loud, 
As  you  pass  on  your  way,  or  make  way 

through  the  crowd. 
Talk  war,  or  carouse ;  only  keep  off  the 

day 
Of  his  coming,  with  every  hard  means  in 

your  way. 


Blow  smoke  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 

and  laugh 
With  the  broad-chested  men,  as  you  loaf 

at  your  inn, 
As  you  crowd  to  your  inn  from  your  saddle 

and  quaff 
Red  wine  from  a  horn;  while  your  dogs 

at  your  feet, 
Your  slim  spotted  dogs,  like  the  fawn,  and 

as  fleet, 
Crouch  patiently  by  and  look  up  at  your 

face, 
As  they  wait  for  the  call  of  the  horn  to  the 

chase; 
For  you  shall  not  suffer,  and  you  shall  not 

sin, 


Until  peace  goes  out  just  as  love  comes 
in. 


Love  horses  and  hounds,  meet  many 

good  men — 
Yea,  men  are  most  proper,  and  keep  you 

from  care. 
There  is  strength  in  a  horse.    There  is 

pride  in  his  will; 
It  is  sweet  to  look  back  as  you  climb  the 

steep  hill. 
There  is  room.    You  have  movement  of 

limb;  you  have  air, 
Have  the  smell  of  the  wood,  of  the  grasses; 

and  then 
What  comfort  to  rest,  as  you  lie  thrown 

full  length 
All  night  and  alone,  with  your  fists  full  of 

strength! 
Go  away,  go  away  with  your  bitter-sweet 

pain 
Of    love;    for     love     is     the     story     of 

troubles, 

Of    troubles    and    love,    that    travel    to 
gether 
The    round    world    round.      Behold    the 

bubbles 
Of  love!    Then    troubles  and    turbulent 

weather. 
Why,  man  had  all  Eden!    Then  love,  then 

Cain! 


AFRICA. 

Oh!  she  is  very  old.     I  lay, 
Made     dumb    with    awe    and    wonder 
ment, 

Beneath  a  palm  before  my  tent, 
With  idle  and  discouraged  hands, 
Not  many  days  ago,  on  sands 
Of  awful,  silent  Africa. 
Long  gazing  on  her  ghostly  shades, 
That  lift  their  bare  arms  in  the  air, 


1 34 


PICTURES. 


I  lay.     I  mused  where  story  fades 
From  her  dark  brow  and  found  her  fair. 


A  slave,  and  old,  within  her  veins 
There  runs  that  warm,  forbidden  blood 
That  no  man  dares  to  dignify 
In  elevated  song.     The  chains 
That  held  her  race  but  yesterday 
Hold  still  the  hands  of  men.     Forbid 
Is  Ethiop.     The  turbid  flood 
Of  prejudice  lies  stagnant  still, 
And  all  the  world  is  tainted.     Will 
And  wit  lie  broken  as  a  lance 
Against  the  brazen  mailed  face 
Of  old  opinion.     None  advance, 
Steel-clad  and  glad,  to  the  attack, 
With    trumpet    and   with    song.      Look 

back! 

Beneath  yon  pyramids  lie  hid 
The  histories  of  her  great  race .... 
Old  Nilus  rolls  right  sullen  by, 
With  all  his  secrets.     Who  shall  say: 
My  father  rear'd  a  pyramid; 
My  brother  clipp'd  the  dragon's  wings; 
My  mother  was  Semiramis  ? 
Yea,  harps  strike  idly  out  of  place; 
Men  sing  of  savage  Saxon  kings 
New-born  and  known  but  yesterday, 
And  Norman  blood  presumes  to  say. . . . 

Nay,  ye  who  boast  ancestral  name 
And  vaunt  deeds  dignified  by  time 
Must  not  despise  her.     Who  hath  worn 
Since  time  began  a  face  that  is 
So  all-enduring,  old  like  this — 
A  face  like  Africa's ?    Behold! 
The  Sphinx  is  Africa.     The  bond 
Of  silence  is  upon  her.     Old 
And   white   with   tombs,    and    rent    and 

shorn; 

With  raiment  wet  with  tears,  and  torn, 
And  trampled  on,  yet  all  untamed; 
All  naked  now,  yet  not  ashamed,— 
The     mistress     of     the     young    world's 
prime, 


Whose  obelisks  still  laugh  at  time, 
And  lift  to  heaven  her  fair  name, 
Sleeps  satisfied  upon  her  fame. 

Beyond  the  Sphinx,  and  still  beyond, 
Beyond  the  tawny  desert-tomb 
Of  Time;  beyond  tradition,  loom 
And  lifts,  ghost-like,  from  out  the  gloom, 
Her  thousand  cities,  battle-torn 
And  gray  with  story  and  with  Time. 
Her  humblest  ruins  are  sublime; 
Her  thrones  with  mosses  overborne 
Make  velvets  for  the  feet  of  Time. 


She    points   a   hand    and    cries:    "Go 

read 

The  letter'd  obelisks  that  lord 
Old    Kome,    and    know    my    name    and 

deed. 

My  archives  these,  and  plunder 'd  when 
I  had  grown  weary  of  all  men." 
We  turn  to  these;  we  cry:  "  Abhorr'd 
Old  Sphinx,  behold,  we  cannot  read!  " 


CROSSING  THE  PLAINS. 

What  great  yoked  brutes  with  briskets 

low, 

With  wrinkled  necks  like  buffalo, 
With  round,  brown,  liquid,  pleading  eyes, 
That  turn'd  so  slow  and  sad  to  you, 
That   shone   like    love's    eyes    soft    with 

tears, 

That  seem'd  to  plead,  and  make  replies, 
The   while   they  bow'd   their   necks  and 

drew 

The  creaking  load;  and  look'd  at  you. 
Their  sable  briskets  swept  the  ground, 
Their  cloven  feet  kept  solemn  sound. 

Two  sullen  bullocks  led  the  line, 
Their     great    eyes     shining     bright    like 
wine; 


PICTURES. 


Two  sullen  captive  kings  were  they, 
That  had  in  time  held  herds  at  bay, 
And  even  now  they  crush'd  the  sod 
With  stolid  sense  of  majesty, 
And  statety  stepp'd  and  stately  trod, 
As  if  'twere  something  still  to  be 
Kings  even  in  captivity. 


THE  MEN  OF  FORTY-NINE. 

Those  brave  old  bricks  of  forty-nine! 
What  lives  they  lived!  what  deaths  they 

died! 

A  thousand  canons,  darkling  wide 
Below  Sierra's  slopes  of  pine, 
Receive  them  now.     And  they  who  died 
Along  the  far,  dim,  desert  route— 
Their  ghosts  are  many.     Let  them  keep 
Their  vast  possessions.     The  Piute, 
The  tawny  warrior,  will  dispute 
No  boundary  with  these.     And  I 
Who  saw  them  live,  who  felt  them  die, 
Say,  let  their  unplow'd  ashes  sleep, 
Untouch'd  by  man,  on  plain  or  steep. 


The    bearded,    sunbrown'd   men    who 

bore 

The  burden  of  that  frightful  year, 
Who  toil'd,  but  did  not  gather  store, 
They  shall  not  be  forgotten.     Drear 
And  white,  the  plains  of  Shoshouee 
Shall  point  us  to  that  farther  shore, 
And  long,  white,  shining  lines  of  bones, 
Make  needless  sign  or  white  mile-stones. 


The     wild 

wheel; 
The    train     that 

barge; 

The  dust  that  rose  up  like  a  cloud  — 
Like  smoke  of  distant  battle!    Loud 


man's    yell,    the   groaning 


moved     like     drifting 


The    great   whips    rang    like    shot,    and 

steel 

Of  antique  fashion,  crude  and  large, 
Flash'd  back  as  in  some  battle  charge. 


They  sought,  yea,  they  did  find  their 

rest. 

Along  that  long  and  lonesome  way, 
These  brave  men  buffet'd  the  West 
With  lifted  faces.     Full  were  they 
Of  great  endeavor.     Brave  and  true 
As  stern  Crusader  clad  in  steel, 
They  died  a-field  as  it  was  fit. 
Made  strong  with  hope,  they  dared  to  do 
Achievement  that  a  host  to-day 
Would  stagger  at,  stand  back  and  reel, 
Defeated  at  the  thought  of  it. 

What  brave  endeavor  to  endure! 
What  patient  hope,  when  hope  was  past! 
What  still  surrender  at  the  last, 
A  thousand  leagues  from  hope!  how  pure 
They  lived,  how  proud  they  died! 
How  generous  with  life!     The  wide 
And  gloried  age  of  chivalry 
Hath  not  one  page  like  this  to  me. 

Let  all  these  golden  days  go  by, 
In  sunny  summer  weather.     I 
But  think  upon  my  buried  brave, 
And  breathe  beneath  another  sky. 
Let  Beauty  glide  in  gilded  car, 
And  find  my  sundown  seas  afar, 
Forgetful  that  'tis  but  one  grave 
From  eastmost  to  the  westmost  wave. 


Yea,  I  remember!     The  still  tears 
That  o'er  uncoffin'd  faces  fell! 
The  final,  silent,  sad  farewell! 
God!  these  are  with  me  all  the  years! 
They  shall  be  with  me  ever.     I 
Shall  not  forget.     I  hold  a  trust. 
They  are  part  of  my  existence.     When 


1 86 


PICTURES. 


Swift  down  the  shining  iron  track 

You    sweep,    and    fields    of    corn    flash 

back, 

And  herds  of  lowing  steers  move  by, 
And  men  laugh  loud,  in  mute  mistrust, 
I  turn  to  other  days,  to  men 
Who  made  a  pathway  with  their  dust. 
NAPLES,  1874. 


THE  HEROES  OF  AMERICA. 

O  perfect  heroes  of  the  earth, 
That  couquer'd  forests,  harvest  set ! 
O  sires,  mothers  of  my  West! 
How  shall  we  count  your  proud  bequest? 
But  yesterday  ye  gave  us  birth; 
We  eat  your  hard-earn'd  bread  to-day, 
Nor  toil  nor  spin  nor  make  regret, 
But  praise  our  petty  selves  and  say 
How  great  we  are.     We  all  forget 
The  still  endurance  of  the  rude 
Unpolish'd  sons  of  solitude. 


What     strong,     uncommon    men    were 

these, 

These  settlers  hewing  to  the  seas! 
Great  horny-handed  men  and  tan; 
Men  blown  from  many  a  barren  land 
Beyond  the  sea;  men  red  of  hand, 
And  men  in  love,  and  men  in  debt, 
Like  David's  men  in  battle  set; 
And  men  whose  very  hearts  had  died, 
Who  only  sought  these  woods  to  hide 
Their  wretchedness,  held  in  the  van; 
Yet  every  man  among  them  stood 
Alone,  along  that  sounding  wood, 
And  every  man  somehow  a  man. 
They  push'd  the  mailed  wood  aside, 
They  toss'd  the  forest  like  a  toy, 
That  grand  forgotten  race  of  men — 
The  boldest  baud  that  yet  has  been 
Together  since  the  siege  of  Troy. 

SAX  FRANCISCO.  1871. 


ATTILA'S  THRONE:  TORCELLO. 

I  do  recall  some  sad  days  spent 
By  borders  of  the  Orient, 
'T would  make  a  tale.     It  matters  not. 
I  sought  the  loneliest  seas;  I  sought 
The  solitude  of  ruins,  and  forgot 
Mine  own  life  and  my  littleness 
Before  this  fair  land's  mute  distress. 

Slow  sailing  through  the  reedy  isles, 
Some  sunny  summer  yesterdays, 
I  watched  the  storied  yellow  sail, 
And  lifted  prow  of  steely  mail 
'Tis  all  that's  left  Torcello  now, — 
A  pirate's  yellow  sail,  a  prow. 

I  touch'd  Torcello.     Once  on  land, 
I  took  a  sea-shell  in  my  hand, 
And  blew  like  any  trumpeter. 
I  felt  the  fig  leaves  lift  and  stir 
On  trees  that  reach  from  ruin'd  wall 
Above  my  head, — but  that  was  all. 
Back  from  the  farther  island  shore 
Came  echoes  trooping — nothing  more. 

By  cattle  paths  grass-grown  and  worn, 
Through  marbled  streets  all   stain'd  and 

torn 

By  time  and  battle,  lone  I  walk'd. 
A  bent  old  beggar,  white  as  one 
For  better  fruitage  blossoming, 
Came  on.    And  as  he  came  he  talk'd 
Unto  himself;  for  there  were  none 
In  all  his  island,  old  and  dim. 
To  answerback  or  question  him. 
I  turn'd,  retraced  my  steps  once  more. 
The  hot  miasma  steam 'd  and  rose 
In  deadly  vapor  from  the  reeds 
That  grew  from  out  the  shallow  shore, 
Where  peasants  say  the  sea-horse  feeds, 
And  Neptune  shapes  his  horn  and  blows. 

Yet  here  stood  Adria  once,  and  here 
Attila  came  with  sword  and  flame, 


PICTURES. 


i87 


And  set  his  throne  of  hollow'd  stone 

In  her  high  mart.    And  it  remains 

Still  lord  o'er  all.     Where  once  the  tears 

Of  mute  petition  fell,  the  rains 

Of  heaven  fall.     Lo!  all  alone 

There  lifts  this  massive  empty  throne. 

I  climb'd  and  sat  that  throne  of  stone 
To  contemplate,  to  dream,  to  reign — 
Ay,  reign  above  myself;  to  call 
The  people  of  the  past  again 
Before  me  as  I  sat  alone 
In  all  my  kingdom.     There  were  kine 
That  browsed  along  the  reedy  brine, 
And  now  and  then  a  tusky  boar 
Would     shake    the    high    reeds   of    the 

shore, 
A  bird  blow  by,— but  that  was  all. 

I  watch'd  the  lonesome  sea-gull  pass. 
I  did  remember  and  forget, — 
The  past  roll'd  by;  I  lived  alone. 
I  sat  the  shapely,  chisell'd  stone 
That  stands  in  tall,  sweet  grasses  set; 
Ay,  girdle  deep  in  long,  strong  grass, 
And  green  alfalfa.     Very  fair 
The  heavens  were,  and  still  and  blue, 
For  Nature  knows  no  changes  there. 
The  Alps  of  Venice,  far  away, 
Like  some  half-risen  late  moon  lay. 

How  sweet  the  grasses  at  my  feet! 

The  smell  of  clover  over-sweet. 

I  heard  the  hum  of  bees.     The  bloom 

Of  clover-tops  and  cherry-trees 

Was  being  rifled  by  the  bees, 

And  these  were  building  in  a  tomb. 

The  fair  alfalfa— such  as  has 

Usurp'd  the  Occident,  and  grows 

With  all  the  sweetness  of  the  rose 

On  Sacramento's  sundown  hills— 

Is  there,  and  that  dead  island  fills 

With  fragrance.    Yet  the  smell  of  death 

Comes  riding  in  on  every  breath. 


That     sad,     sweet     fragrance.       It     had 

sense, 

And  sound,  and  voice.    It  was  a  part 
Of  that  which  had  possess'd  my  heart, 
And  would  not  of  my  will  go  hence. 
'Twas    Autumn's    breath;    'twas    sad    as 

kiss 
Of  some  sweet  worshipp'd  woman  is. 

Some  snails  had  climb'd  the  throne  and 

writ 

Their  silver  monograms  on  it 
In  unknown  tongues.    I  sat  thereon, 
I  dream'd  until  the  day  was  gone; 
I  blew  again  my  pearly  shell, — 
Blew  long  and    strong,    and    loud    and 

well; 

I  puff  d  my  cheeks,  I  blew  as  when 
Horn'd  satyrs  piped  and  danced  as  men. 

Some  mouse-brown  cows  that  fed  within 

Look'd  up.     A  cowherd  rose  hard  by, 

My  single  subject,  clad  in  skin, 

Nor  yet  half -clad.     I  caught  his  eye,— 

He  stared  at  me,  then  turn'd  and  fled. 

He  frighten'd  fled,  and  as  he  ran, 

Like  wild  beast  from  the  face  of  man, 

Back  o'er  his  shoulder  threw  his  head. 

He  stopp'd,  and  then  this  subject  true, 

Mine  only  one  in  all  the  isle, 

Turn'd     round,     and,     with    a    fawning 

smile, 
Came  back  and  ask'd  me  for  a  sou! 


WESTWARD  HO! 

What  strength!  what  strife!  what  rude 

unrest! 
What    shocks!    what   half-shaped  armies 

met! 

A  mighty  nation  moving  west, 
With  all  its  steely  sinews  set 

gainst  the  living  forests.     Hear 
The  shouts,  the  shots  of  pioneer, 


1 88 


PICTURES. 


The  rended  forests,  rolling  wheels, 
As  if  some  half-check'd  army  reels, 
Eecoils,  redoubles,  comes  agaiu, 
Loud  sounding  like  a  hurricane. 

O  bearded,  stalwart,  westmost  men, 
So  tower-like,  so  Gothic  built! 
A  kingdom  won  without  the  guilt 
Of  studied  battle,  that  hath  been 
Your  blood's  inheritance . . .  .Your  heirs 
Know  not  your  tombs:     The  great  plow 
shares 

Cleave  softly  through  the  mellow  loam 
Where  you  have  made  eternal  home, 
And  set  no  sign.     Your  epitaphs 
Are  writ  in  furrows.     Beauty  laughs 
While  through  the  green  ways  wandering 
Beside  her  love,  slow  gathering 
White  starry-hearted  May-time  blooms 
Above  your  lowly  level'd  tombs; 
And  then  below  the  spotted  sky 
She  stops,  she  leans,  she  wonders  why 
The  ground  is  heaved  and  broken  so, 
And  why  the  grasses  darker  grow 
And  droop  and  trail  like  wounded  wing. 

Yea,  Time,  the  grand  old  harvester, 
Has  gather'd  you  from  wood  and  plain. 
We  call  to  you  again,  again; 
The  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car 
Comes  back  in  answer.    Deep  and  wide 
The  wheels  of  progress  have  passed  on; 
The  silent  pioneer  is  gone. 
His  ghost  is  moving  down  the  trees, 
And  now  we  push  the  memories 
Of  bluff,  bold  men  who  dared  and  died 
In  foremost  battle,  quite  aside. 


VENICE. 

City  at  sea,  thou  art  surely  an  ark, 
Sea-blown  and  a-wreck  in   the  rain   and 

dark, 

Where  the  white  sea-caps  are  so  toss'd  and 
curl'd. 


Thy  sins  they  were  many — and  behold  the 

flood! 
And  here   and  about   us   are    beasts    in 

stud. 

Creatures  and  beasts  that  creep  and  go, 
Enough,  ay,  and  wicked  enough  I  know, 
To  populate,  or  devour,  a  world. 


O  wrinkled  old  lion,  looking  down 
With    brazen     frown     upon     mine    and 

me, 

From  tower  a-top  of  your  watery  town, 
Old  king  of  the  desert,  once  king  of  the 

sea: 

List!  here  is  a  lesson  for  thee  to-day. 
Proud  and  immovable  monarch,  I  say, 
Lo!  here  is  a  lesson  to-day  for  thee, 
Of  the  things  that  were  and  the  things 

to  be. 


Dank  palaces    held    by    the   populous 

sea 
For  the  good  dead  men,  all  cover'd  with 

shell,— 
We  will  pay  them  a  visit  some  day;  and 

we, 
We  may  come  to  love  their  old   palaces 

well. 
Bah!    toppled   old   columns   all    tumbled 

across, 

Toss'd  in  the  waters  that  lift  and  fall, 
Waving  in  waves  long  masses  of  moss, 
Toppled  old  columns, — and  that  will  be 

all. 


I  know  you,  lion  of  gray  Saint  Mark; 
You  flutter'd  all  seas  beneath  your  wing. 
Now,    over    the    deep,    and    up    in    the 

dark, 

High  over  the  girdles  of  bright  gaslight, 
With  wings  in  the  air  as  if  for  flight, 
And  crouching  as  if  about  to  spring 
From  top  of  your  granite  of  Africa,— 


PICTURES. 


189 


Say,   what   shall  be  said    of    you    some 
day? 

What  shall  be  said,  O  grim  Saint  Mark, 
Savage  old  beast  so  cross'd  aud  churl'd, 
By  the  after-men  from  the  under-world  ? 
What  shall  be  said  as  they  search  along 
And  sail  these  seas  for  some  sign  or  spark 
Of  the  old  dead  fires  of  the  dear  old  days, 
When   men    and  story  have    gone  their 

ways, 
Or  even  your  city  and  name  from  song? 

Why,  sullen  old  monarch  of  still'd  Saint 

Mark, 
Strange   men   of  my  West,  wise-mouth'd 

and  strong, 

Will  come  some  day  and,  gazing  long 
And  mute  with  wonder,  will  say  of  thee: 
"  This  is  the  Saint!    High  over  the  dark, 
Foot  on  the  Bible  and  great  teeth  bare, 
Tail  whipp'd  back  and  teeth  in  the  air — 
Lo!  this  is  the  Saint,  and  none  but  he!" 


A  HAILSTORM  IN  VENICE. 

The    hail  like  cannon-shot   struck  the 

sea 

And  churn 'd  it  white  as  a  creamy  foam; 
Then  hail  like  battle-shot  struck  where  we 
Stood  looking  a-sea  from  a  sea-girt  home- 
Came  shooting  askance  as  if  shot  at  the 

head; 
Then    glass    flew   shiver'd   and  men  fell 

down 
And  pray'd  where  they  fell,  and  the  gray 

old  town 
Lay  riddled  and  helpless  as  if  shot  dead. 

Then  lightning  right  full  in  the  eyes! 

and  then 
Fair  women  fell  down  flat  on  the  face, 


And  pray'd  their  pitiful  Mother  with  tears, 
And  pray'd  black  death  as  a  hiding-place; 
And  good  priests  pray'd  for  the  sea-bound 

men 
As   never    good    priests    had    pray'd   for 

years .... 
Then  God  spake  thunder!    And  then  the 

rain! 
The   great,    white,    beautiful,    high-born 

rain! 


SANTA  MARIA:  TORCELLO. 

And  yet  again  through  the  watery  miles 
Of  reeds  I  row'd,  till  the  desolate  isles 
Of  the  black-bead  makers  of  Venice  were 

not. 
I  touch'd  where  a  single  sharp  tower  is 

shot 

To  heaven,  and  torn  by  thunder  and  rent 
As  if  it  had  been  Time's  battlement. 
A   city  lies   dead,    and   this    great  grave 
stone 
Stands  on  its  grave  like  a  ghost  alone. 


Some  cherry-trees  grow  here,  and  here 
An  old  church,  simple  and  severe 
In  ancient  aspect,  stands  alone 
Amid  the  ruin  and  decay,  all  grown 
In  moss  and  grasses.     Old  and  quaint, 
With  antique  cuts  of  martyr'd  saint, 
The   gray   church   stands    with    stooping 

knees, 
Defying  the  decay  of  seas. 

Her   pictured   hell,  with   flames  blown 

high, 

In  bright  mosaics  wrought  and  set 
When  man  first  knew  the  Nubian  art; 
Her  bearded  saints  as  black  as  jet; 
Her  quaint  Madonna,  dim  with  rain 
And  touch  of  pious  lips  of  pain, 
So  touch'd  my  lonesome  soul,  that  I 


190 


PICTURES. 


Gazed  long,  then  came  and  gazed  again, 
And  loved,  and  took  her  to  my  heart. 


Nor  monk  in  black,  nor  Capucin, 
Nor  priest  of  any  creed  was  seen. 
A.  sunbrown'd  woman,  old  and  tall, 
And  still  as  any  shadow  is, 
Stole  forth  from  out  the  mossy  wall 
With  massive  keys  to  show  me  this: 
Came  slowly  forth,  and,  following, 
Three  birds — and  all  with  drooping  wing. 

Three  mute  brown  babes  of  hers;  and 

they— 

Oh,  they  were  beautiful  as  sleep, 
Or  death,  below  the  troubled  deep! 
And  on  the  pouting  lips  of  these, 
Red  corals  of  the  silent  seas, 
Sweet  birds,  the  everlasting  seal 
Of  silence  that  the  God  has  set 
On  this  dead  island  sits  for  aye. 

I  would  forget,  yet  not  forget 
Their  helpless  eloquence.     They  creep 
Somehow  into  my  heart,  and  keep 
One  bleak,  cold  corner,  jewel  set. 
They  steal  my  better  self  away 
To  them,  as  little  birds  that  day 
Stole  fruits  from  out  the  cherry-trees. 

So  helpless  and  so  wholly  still, 
So  sad,  so  wrapt  in  mute  surprise, 
That  I  did  love,  despite  my  will. 
One  little  maid  of  ten — such  eyes, 
So  large  and  lovely,  so  divine! 
Such  pouting  lips,  such  pearly  cheek! 
Did  lift  her  perfect  eyes  to  mine, 
Until  our  souls  did  touch  and  speak — 
Stood  by  me  all  that  perfect  day, 
Yet  not  one  sweet  word  could  she  say. 

She  turn'd  her  melancholy  eyes 
So  constant  to  my  own,  that  I 


Forgot  the  going  clouds,  the  sky; 

Found  fellowship,  took  bread  and  wine: 

And  so  her  little  soul  and  mine 

Stood  very  near  together  there. 

And  oh,  I  found  her  very  fair! 

Yet  not  one  soft  word  could  she  say : 

What  did  she  think  of  all  that  day? 


CABMEN. 

Not  that  I  deem'd  she  loved  me.    Nay. 
I  dared  not  even  dream  of  that. 
I  do  but  say  I  knew  her;  say 
She  sat  in  dreams  before  me,  sat 
All  still  and  voiceless  as  love  is — 
But  say  her  soul  was  warm  as  wine, 
But  say  it  overflow'd  in  mine, 
And  made  itself  a  part  of  this. 

The  conversation  of  her  eyes 
Was  language  of  the  gods.     Her  breast 
Was  their  abiding  place  of  rest; 
Her  heart  their  gate  to  Paradise. 
Her  heart,  her  heart!  'Tis  shut,  ah  me! 
'Tis  shut,  and  I  have  lost  the  key. 

The  prayer  of  love  breaks  to  an  oath. . . 
No  matter  if  she  loved  or  no, 
God  knows  I  loved  enough  for  both, 
That  day  of  days,  so  dear,  so  fond; 
And  knew  her,  as  you  shall  not  know 
Till  you  have  known  sweet  death,  and  yon 
Have  cross'd  the  dark;  gone  over  to 
The  great  majority  beyond. 


TO  THE  JERSEY  LILY. 

If  all  God's  world  a  garden  were, 
And  women  were  but  flowers. 
If  men  were  bees  that  busied  there, 
Through  endless  summer  hours, 
O  I  would  hum  God's  garden  through 
For  honey  till  I  came  to  you. 


PICTURES. 


IN  A  GONDOLA. 

'Twas  night  in  Venice.    Then  down  to  the 

tide, 

Where  a  tall  and  a  shadowy  gondolier 
Lean'd  on  his  oar,  like  a  lifted  spear; — 
'Twas  night  in  Venice;  then  side  by  side 
We  sat  in  his  boat.     Then  oar  a-trip 
On  the  black  boat's  keel,  then  dip  and  dip, 
These  boatmen  should  build  their  boats 

more  wide, 
For  we  were  together,  and  side  by  side. 


The  sea  it  was  level  as  seas  of  light, 
As  still  as  the  light  ere  a  hand  was  laid 
To  the  making  of  lands,  or  the  seas  were 

made. 

'Twas  fond  as  a  bride  on  her  bridal  night 
When  a  great  love  swells  in  her  soul  like  a 

sea, 

And  makes  her  but  less  than  divinity. 
'Twas  night, — The  soul  of  the  day,  I  wis. 
A  woman's  face  hiding  from  her  first  kiss. 


....Ah,  how  one  wanders! 
all, 


Yet  after  it 


To   laugh  at   all  lovers   and   to   learn  to 

scoff 

When  you  really  have  naught  of  account 

to  say, 
It  is  better,  perhaps,  to  pull  leaves  by  the 

way; 
Watch  the  round  moon  rise,  or  the  red 

stars  fall; 

And  then,   too,   in  Venice!    dear,  moth- 
eaten  town;' 
One    palace    of    pictures;    great    frescoes 

spill'd  down 
Outside  the  walls  from  the  fullness  there 

of:— 


'Twas    night  in  Venice.    On  o'er  the 

tide— 
These  boats  they  are  narrow  as  they  can 

be, 
These  crafts  they  are  narrow  enough,  and 

we, 

To  balance  the  boat,  sat  side  by  side — 
Out  under  the  arch  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
On  under  the  arch  of  the  star-sown  skies; 
We  two  were  together  on  the  Adrian  Sea, — 
The  one  fair  woman  of  the  world  to  me. 


I  was  vain  enough  to  be  persuaded— London,  1877-8— into  publishing  two  fat  volumes  of  ray  "complete" 
poems.  The  work  was  dedicated  to  Lord  Houghton,  who  generously  gave  permission  without  lookiny  it  over.  But 
he  had  the  good  taste  to  dislike  the  empty  verbosity,  imitations  and  all  such  weaknesses  of  the  mass,  and  bad 
the  gentility  to  promptly  tell  me  so.  Better  still,  he  took  a  pencil  and  struck  out  much.  Braver  still,  he  heartily 
indorsed  many  descriptions  of  men  and  things  in  the  West,  and  here  and  there  wrote  "Pictures!  Pictures."  And 
so  in  memory  of  the  most  helpful  friend  I  ever  had  I  have  put  these  bits  together  here,  along  with  some  others  of 
like  character,  and  called  them  Pictures. 

Yet  Houghton  was  not  so  stoutly  my  friend  at  first,  and  came  forward  only  tardily  as  the  rightful  and  undis 
puted  head  of  literary  and  social  London,  after  I  had  my  first  success.  But  on  my  third  and  fourth  visits  to 
Europe,  and  when  the  pitiful  jackals  were  loud  in  my  land,  then  he  took  me  to  his  heart  and  to  his  hearthstone. 
So  that  I  am  indebted  to  the  small  enmities  of  America  for  his  great  friendship.  You  may  remember  it  was  he 
who  was  first  to  know  Keats ;  and  the  last,  too.  For  he  it  was  who  set  up  that  stone  with  the  poetical  inscription. 
Here  lies  one  whose  name  was  writ  in  water."  And  for  half  a  century  Houghton  kept  that  lowly  grave  the 
greenest  and  pleasantest  in  all  Rome ;  literally  kept  "  The  daisies  growing  over  me." 

I  see  in  the  first  volume  of  his  biography,  newly  out,  that  he  and  Gladstone  had  some  exchange  of  letters 
about  myself ;  and  from  this  I  suspect  I  owe  this  brave  nobleman  far  more  than  he  ever  let  me  know.  In  his 
last  letter,  written  from  Greece  when  no  longer  strong,  be  says:  "I  command  you  accept  the  invitation  to  spend  a 
season  with  Mr.  Gladstone  at  Hawarden  Castle.  It  is  your  duty  to  yourself  and  your  great  country  to  learn  how 
the  real  king  of  England  lives." 

Here  ends,  as  a  rule,  my  earlier  poems;  that  is  such  as  were  written  or  outlined  before  going  abroad;  also 
suoh  as  were  written  In  or  of  other  lands.  Of  course  no  sharp  lines  can  be  drawn  between  old  and  new,  if  we  follow 


192 


PICTURES. 


date  of  production,  nor  is  that  important.  I  only  wish  to  point  out  that  the  place  for  a  man  to  write  is  in  his  own 
country,  of  his  own  land  and  out  of  his  own  heart.  He  must  have  a  home  and  he  must  have  a  heart  for  that  home. 
True,  some  of  these  last  and  best  poems  were  begun  and  even  published  in  Italy,  but  they  never  could  have  been 
finished  there.  Much  of  this  foreign  work  is  left  out  entirely,  as  beyond  repair;  for  it  was  nearly  all  sad,  even 
sickly.  Song  should  be  glad,  lofty,  beautiful.  Besides  some  of  it  was  bitter.  As  to  whether  I  had  a  right  to  feel 
so  utterly  miserable  in  my  exile  does  not  matter  now.  I  am  thankful  for  the  strength  that  kept  me  silent  and  the 
courage  that  brought  me  home  to  the  brave  and  bright  young  lovers  of  the  beautiful  Truth  by  the  sea  of  seas.  Those 
of  the  new  generation  who  gather  about  me  see  no  reason  why  a  man  may  not  win  fame  or  friends  abroad  if  he 
can,  and  I  would  not  have  them  see  one  word  of  bitterness  in  thia  book.  For  truly  there  is  nothing  of  the  sort  in 
my  heart  now  at  the  last. 


LATER    POEMS. 


193 


LATER   POEMS. 

My  Mountains  still  are  free  ! 
They  hurl  oppression  back; 
They  keep  the  boon  of  liberty. 


THE  GOLD  THAT  GREW  BY  SHASTA 
TOWN. 

From  Shasta  town  to  Redding  town 
The  ground  is  torn  by  miners  dead; 
The  manzanita,  rank  and  red, 
Drops  dusty  berries  up  and  down 
Their    grass-grown    trails.      Their   silent 

mines 

Are  wrapped  in  chaparral  and  vines; 
Yet  one  gray  miner  still  sits  down 
'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town. 

The  quail  pipes  pleasantly.     The  hare 
Leaps  careless  o'er  the  golden  oat 
That  grows  below  the  water  moat; 
The  lizard  basks  in  sunlight  there. 
The  brown  hawk  swims  the  perfumed  air 
Unfrightened  through  the  livelong  day; 
And  now  and  then  a  curious  bear 
Comes  shuffling  down  the  ditch  by  night, 
And  leaves  some  wide,  long  tracks  in  clay 
So  human-like,  so  stealthy  light, 
Where  one  lone  cabin  still  stoops  down 
'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town. 

That  great  graveyard  of  hopes!  of  men 
Who  sought  for  hidden  veins  of  gold; 
Of  young  men  suddenly  grown  old— 
Of  old  men  dead,  despairing  vrhen 
The  gold  was  just  within  their  hold! 
That  storied  land,  whereon  the  light 
Of  other  days  gleams  faintly  still; 
Somelike  the  halo  of  a  hill 


That  lifts  above  the  falling  night; 
That  warm,  red,  rich  and  human  land, 
That  flesh-red  soil,  that  warm  red  sand. 
Where  one  gray  miner  still  sits  down! 
'Twixt  Redding  and  sweet  Shasta  town! 

"  I  know  the  vein  is  here!"  he  said; 
For  twenty  years,  for  thirty  years! 
While  far  away  fell  tears  on  tears 
From   wife  and   babe  who  mourned  him 

dead. 

No  gold !     No  gold !     And  he  grew  old 
And  crept  to  toil  with  bended  head 
Amid  a  graveyard  of  his  dead, 
Still  seeking  for  that  vein  of  gold. 

Then  lo,  came  laughing  down  the  years 
A  sweet  grandchild!     Between  his  tears 
He  laughed.     He  set  her  by  the  door 
The  while  he  toiled;  his  day's  toil  o'er 
He  held  her  chubby  cheeks  between 
His  hard  palms,    laughed;    and  laughing 

cried. 
You   should   have  seen,  have  heard  and 

seen 

His  boyish  joy,  his  stout  old  pride, 
When  toil  was  done  and  he  sat  down 
At  night,  below  sweet  Shasta  town! 

At  last  his   strength  was   gone.      "Nc 

more! 

I  mine  no  more.  I  plant  me  now 
A  vine  and  fig-tree;  worn  and  old, 
I  seek  no  more  my  vein  of  gold. 


LATER    POEMS. 


But,  oh,  I  sigh  to  give  it  o'er; 
These  thirty  years  of  toil!  somehow 
It  seems  so  hard;  but  now,  no  more." 

And  so  the  old  man  set  him  down 
To  plant,  by  pleasant  Shasta  town. 
And  it  was  pleasant;  piped  the  quail 
The  full  year  through.     The  chipmunk 

stole, 

His  whiskered  nose  and  tossy  tail 
Full  buried  in  the  sugar-bowl. 

And  purple  grapes  and  grapes  of  gold 
Swung  sweet  as  milk.    While  orange-trees 
Grew  brown  with  laden  honey-bees. 
Oh!  it  was  pleasant  up  and  down 
That  vine-set  hill  of  Shasta  town. 


And  then  that  cloud-burst  canae!   Ah,  me! 
That  torn  ditch  there!     The  mellow  land 
Eolled  seaward  like  a  rope  of  sand, 
Nor  left  one  leafy  vine  or  tree 
Of  all  that  Eden  nestling  down 
Below  that  moat  by  Shasta  town! 
****** 

The  old  man  sat  his  cabin's  sill, 
His  gray  head  bowed  to  hands  and  knee; 
The  child  went  forth,  sang  pleasantly, 
Where  burst  the  ditch  the  the  day  before, 
And  picked  some  pebbles  from  the  hill. 
The  old  man  moaned,  moaned  o'er  and 

o'er: 

"  My  babe  is  dowerless,  and  I 
Must  fold  my  helpless  hands  and  die! 
Ah,  me!     What  curse  comes  ever  down 
On  me  and  mine  at  Shasta  town." 

"  Good  Grandpa,  see!"  the  glad  child 

said, 

And  so  leaned  softly  to  his  side, — 
Laid  her  gold  head  to  his  gray  head, 
And  merry  voiced  and  cheery  cried, 
"  Good  Grandpa,  do  not  weep,  but  see! 


I've  found  a  peck  of  orange  seeds! 
I  searched  the  hill  for  vine  or  tree; 
Not  one!— not  even  oats  or  weeds; 
But,  oh!  such  heaps  of  orange  seeds! 

"  Come,  good  Grandpa!    Now,  once  you 

said 

That  God  is  good.     So  this  may  teach 
That  we  must  plant  each  seed,  and  each 
May  grow  to  be  an  orange  tree. 
Now,    good   Grandpa,    please    raise  your 

head, 

And  please  come  plant  the  seeds  with  me." 
And  prattling  thus,  or  like  to  this, 
The  child  thrust  her  full  hands  in  his. 

He  sprang,  sprang  upright  as  of  old. 
"  'Tis  gold!  'tis  gold!  my  hidden  vein! 
'Tis  gold  for  you,  sweet  babe,  'tis  gold! 
Yea,  God  is  good;  we  plant  again!  " 
So  one  old  miner  still  sits  down 
By  pleasant,  sunlit  Shasta  town. 


THE  SIOUX  CHIEF'S  DAUGHTEK. 

Two  gray  hawks  ride  the  rising  blast; 
Dark  cloven  clouds  drive  to  and  fro 
By  peaks  pre-eminent  in  snow; 
A  sounding  river  rushes  past, 
So  wild,  so  vortex-like,  and  vast. 


.  A  lone  lodge  tops  the  windy  hill; 
A  tawny  maiden,  mute  and  still, 
Stands  waiting  at  the  river's  brink, 
As  eager,  fond  as  you  can  think. 
A  mighty  chief  is  at  her  feet; 
She  does  not  heed  him  wooing  so — 
She  hears  the  dark,  wild  waters  flow; 
She  waits  her  lover,  tall  and  fleet, 
From  out  far  beaming  hills  of  snow. 

He  comes!    The  grim  chief  springs  in 

air — 
His  brawny  arm,  his  blade  is  bare. 


LATER    POEMS. 


195 


She  turns;  she  lifts  her  round,  brown 

hand; 

She  looks  him  fairly  in  the  face; 
She  moves  her  foot  a  little  pace 
And  says,  with  calmness  and  command, 
"There's  blood  enough  in  this  lorn  land. 

"  But  see!  a  test  of  strength  and  skill, 
Of  courage  and  tierce  fortitude; 
To  breast  and  wrestle  with  the  rude 
And  storm-born  waters,  now  I  will 
Bestow  you  both. 

" Stand  either  side! 

And  you,  my  burly  chief,  I  know 

Would  choose  my  right.  Now  peer  you  low 

Across  the  waters  wild  and  vide. 

See!  leaning  so  this  morn  I  spied 

Eed  berries  dip  yon  farther  side. 

"See,  dipping,  dripping  in  the  stream! 
Twin  boughs  of  autumn  berries  gleam! 

"  Now  this,  brave  men,  shall  be  the  test: 
Plunge  in  the  stream,  bear  knife  in  teeth 
To  cut  yon  bough  for  bridal  wreath. 
Plunge  in!  and  he  who  bears  him  best, 
And  brings  yon  ruddy  fruit  to  land 
The  first,  shall  have  both  heart  and  hand." 

Two  tawny  men,  tall,  brown  and  thewed 
Like  antique  bronzes  rarely  seen, 
Shot  up  like  flame. 

She.  stood  between 
Like  fixed,  impassive  fortitude. 
Then  one  threw  robes  with  sullen  air, 
And  wound  red  fox-tails  in  his  hair; 
But  one  with  face  of  proud  delight 
Entwined  a  wing  of  snowy  white. 

She  stood  between.     She  sudden  gave 
The  sign  and  each  impatient  brave 


Shot  sudden  in  the  sounding  wave; 
The  startled  waters  gurgled  round; 
Their  stubborn  strokes  kept  sullen  sound. 

Oh,  then  uprose  the  love  that  slept! 
Oh,  then  her  heart  beat  loud  and  strong! 
Oh,  then  the  proud  love  pent  up  long 
Broke  forth  in  wail  upon  the  air! 
And  leaning  there  she  sobbed  and  wept, 
With  dark  face  mantled  in  her  hair 

She  sudden  lifts  her  leaning  brow. 
He  uears  the  shore,  her  love!  and  now 
The  foam  flies  spouting  from  the  face 
That  laughing  lifts  from  out  the  race. 

The  race  is  won,  the  work  is  done! 
She  sees  the  kingly  crest  of  snow; 
She  knows  her  tall,  brown  Idaho. 
She  cries  aloud,  she  laughing  cries, 
And  tears  are  streaming  from  her  eyes: 
"O  splendid,  kingly  Idaho! 
I  kiss  thy  lifted  crest  of  snow. 

"My  tall  and  tawny  king,  come  back! 
Come  swift,  O  sweet!  why  falter  so? 
Come!    Come!    What    thing    has  crossed 
your  track  ? 

I  kneel  to  all  the  gods  I  know 

Great  Spirit,  what  is  this  I  dread? 
Why,  there  is  blood!  the  wave  is  red! 
That  wrinkled  chief,  outstripped  in  race, 
Dives  down,  and,  hiding  from  my  face, 
Strikes  underneath. 

"...     He  rises  now! 
Now  plucks  my  hero's  berry  bough, 
And  lifts  aloft  his  red  fox  head, 
And  signals  he  has  won  for  me.     .     .     . 
Hist,  softly!     Let  him  come  and  see. 

"Oh,   come!    my  white-crowned   hero, 

come! 
Oh,  come!  and  I  will  be  your  bride, 


196 


LATER    POEMS. 


Despite  yon  chieftain's  craft  and  might. 
Come  back  to  me!  my  lips  are  dumb, 
My  hands  are  helpless  with  despair; 
The  hair  you  kissed,  my  long,  strong  hair, 
Is  reaching  to  the  ruddy  tide, 
That  you  may  clutch  it  when  you  come. 

"  How  slow  he  buffets  back  the  wave! 
O  God,  he  sinks!  O  Heaven!  save 
My  brave,  brave  king!     He  rises!  see! 
Hold  fast,  my  hero!     Strike  for  me. 
Strike  straight  this  way!     Strike  firm  and 

strong! 

Hold  fast  your  strength.     It  is  not  long — 
O  God,  he  sinks!     He  sinks!    Is  gone! 

"And  did  I  dream  and  do  I  wake? 
Or  did  I  wake  and  now  but  dream  ? 
And  what  is  this  crawls  from  the  stream  ? 
Oh,  here  is  some  mad,  mad  mistake! 
What,  you!  the  red  fox  at  my  feet? 
You  first,  and  failing  from  the  race? 
What!     You  have  brought  me  berries  red? 
What!     You   have  brought  your  bride  a 

wreath  ? 

You  sly  red  fox  with  wrinkled  face — 
That  blade  has  blood  between  your  teeth! 

"  Lie  low!  lie  low!  while  I  lean  o'er 
And  clutch  your  red  blade  to  the  shore.  .  . 
Ha!  hai  Take  that!  take  that  and  that! 
Ha!  ha!  So,  through  your  coward  throat 

The  full  day  shines! Two  fox-tails  float 

Far  down,  and  I  but  mock  thereat. 

"  But  what  is  this  ?    What  snowy  crest 
Climbs  out  the  willows  of  the  west, 
All  dripping  from  his  streaming  hair? 
'Tis  he!     My  hero  brave  and  fair! 
His  face  is  lifting  to  my  face, 
And  who  shall  now  dispute  the  race? 

"The  gray  hawks  pass,    O   love!   and 

doves 
O'er  yonder  lodge  shall  coo  their  loves. 


My    hands     shall     heal    your    wounded 

breast, 
And  in  yon  tall  lodge  two  shall  rest." 


TO  THE  CZAE. 

Down  from  her  high  estate  she  stept, 
A  maiden,  gently  born, 
And  by  the  icy  Volga  kept 
Sad  watch,  and  waited  morn; 
And  peasants  say  that  where  she  slept 
The  new  moon  dipt  her  horn. 
Yet  on  and  on,  through  shoreless  snows, 
Far  tow'rd  the  bleak  north  pole, 
The  foulest  wrong  the  good  God  knows 
Eolled  as  dark  rivers  roll; 
While  never  once  for  all  their  woes 
Upspake  your  ruthless  soul. 

She    toiled,    she    taught    the   peasant, 

taught 

The  dark-eyed  Tartar.     He, 
Illumined  with  her  lofty  thought, 
Hose  up  and  sought  to  be, 
What  God  at  the  creation  wrought, 
A  man!     God-like  and  free. 
Yet  still  before  him  yawned  the  black 
Siberian  mines!     And  oh; 
The  knout  upon  the  bare  white  back! 
The  blood  upon  the  snow! 
The  gaunt  wolves,  close  upon  the  track, 
Fought  o'er  the  fallen  so! 

Aud  this  that  one  might  wear  a  crown 
Snatched  from  a  strangled  sire! 
And  this  that  two  might  mock  or  frown, 
From  high  thrones  climbing  higher — 
From  where  the  Parricide  looked  down 
With  harlot  in  desire! 
Yet  on,  beneath  the  great  north  star, 
Like  some  lost,  living  thing, 
That  long  dread  line  stretched,  black  and 
far 


LATER    POEMS. 


197 


Till  buried  by  death's  wing! 

And  great  men  praised  the  goodly  Czar — 

But  God  sat  pitying. 


A   storm   burst   forth!    From   out   the 

storm 
The  clean,  red  lightning  leapt, 

And  lo,  a  prostrate  royal  form 

And  Alexander  slept! 

Down   through    the   snow,   all   smoking, 

warm 

Like  any  blood,  his  crept. 
Yea,  one  lay  dead,  for  millions  dead! 
One  red  spot  in  the  snow 
For  one  long  damning  line  of  red, 
Where  exiles  endless  go — 
The  babe  at  breast,  the  mother's  head 
Bowed  down,  and  dying  so. 


And  did  a  woman  do  this  deed? 
Then  build  her  scaffold  high, 
That  all  may  on  her  forehead  read 
The  martyr's  right  to  die! 
Ring  Cossack  round  on  royal  steed! 
Now  lift  her  to  the  sky! 
But    see!    From    out     the     black    hood 

shines 

A  light  few  look  upon! 
Lorn  exiles,  see,  from  dark,  deep  mines, 
A  star  at  burst  of  dawn! .... 
A  thud!     A  creak  of  hangman's  lines! — 
A  frail  shape  jerked  and  drawn! .... 


The  Czar  is  dead;  the  woman  dead, 
About  her  neck  a  cord. 
In  God's  house  rests  his  royal  head — 
Her's  in  a  place  abhorred; 
Yet  I  had  rather  have  her  bed 
Than  thine,  most  royal  lord! 
Aye,  rather  be  that  woman  dead, 
Than  thee,  dead-living  Czar, 
To  hide  in  dread,  with  both  hands  red, 
Behind  great  bolt  and  bar .... 


You  may  control  to  the  North  Pole, 
But  God  still  guides  the  star. 


TO  RUSSIA. 

"Where  wast  thou  when  I  laid  the  founda 
tions  of  the  earth?  " — Bible. 

Who  tamed  your  lawless  Tartar  blood? 
What  David  bearded  in  her  den 
The  Russian  bear  in  ages  when 
You  strode  your  black,  unbridled  stud, 
A  skin-clad  savage  of  your  steppes  ? 
Why,  one  who  now  sits  low  and  weeps, 
Why  one  who  now  wails  out  to  you — 
The  Jew,  the  Jew,  the  homeless  Jew. 

Who  girt   the    thews    of    your    young 

prime 

And  bound  your  fierce  divided  force? 
Why,  who  but  Moses  shaped  your  course 
United  down  the  grooves  of  time? 
Your  mighty  millions  all  to-day 
The  hated,  homeless  Jew  obey. 
Who  taught  all  poetry  to  you? 
The  Jew,  the  Jew,  the  hated  Jew. 

Who  taught  you  tender  Bible  tales 
Of  honey-lands,  of  milk  and  wine? 
Of  happy,  peaceful  Palestine? 
Of  Jordan's  holy  harvest  vales? 
Who  gave  the  patient  Christ  ?     I  say, 
Who    gave    your  Christian   creed?    Yea, 

yea, 

Who  gave  your  very  God  to  you  ? 
Your  Jew!     Your  Jew!     Your  hated  Jew! 


TO  RACHEL  IN  RUSSIA. 

"  To  bring  them  unto  a  good  land  and  a 
large;  unto  a  Land  Jlowing  with  milk 
and  honey.'' 

O  thou,  whose  patient,  peaceful  blood 
Paints  Sharon's  roses  on  thy  cheek, 


198 


LATER    POEMS. 


And   down  thy  breasts  played   hide  and 

seek, 

Six  thousand  years  a  stainless  flood, 
Rise  up  and  set  thy  sad  face  hence. 
Rise  up  and  come  where  Freedom  waits 
Within  these  white,  wide  ocean  gates 
To  give  thee  God's  inheritance; 
To  bind  thy  wounds  in  this  despair; 
To  braid  thy  long,  strong,  loosened  hair. 

O  Rachel,  weeping  where  the  flood 
Of  icy  Volga  grinds  and  flows 
Against  his  banks  of  blood-red  snows — 
White    banks   made  red   with   children's 

blood — 

Lift  up  thy  head,  be  comforted; 
For,  as  thou  didst  on  manna  feed, 
When  Russia  roamed  a  bear  in  deed, 
And  on  her  own  foul  essence  fed, 
So  shalt  thou  flourish  as  a  tree 
When  Russ  and  Cossack  shall  not  be. 

Then  come  where  yellow  harvests  swell; 
Forsake  that  savage  land  of  snows; 
Forget  the  brutal  Russian's  blows; 
And   come  where    Kings    of    Conscience 

dwell. 

Oh  come,  Rebecca  to  the  well! 
The  voice  of  Rachel  shall  be  sweet! 
The  Gleaner  rest  safe  at  the  feet 
Of  one  who  loves  her;  and  the  spell 
Of  Peace  that  blesses  Paradise 
Shall  kiss  thy  large  and  lonely  eyes. 


THE  BRAVEST  BATTLE. 

The  bravest  battle  that  ever  was  fought; 
Shall  I  tell  you  where  and  when  ? 
On  the  maps  of  the  world  you  will  find 

it  not; 
It  was  fought  by  the  mothers  of  men. 

Nay,  not  with  cannon  or  battle  shot, 
With  sword  or  nobler  pen; 


Nay  not  with  eloquent  word  or  thought, 
From  mouths  of  wonderful  men, 

But  deep  in  a  walled-up  woman's  heart— 
Of  woman  that  would  not  yield, 
But  patiently,  silently  bore  her  part — 
Lo!  there  in  that  battlefield. 

No  marshaling  troop,  no  bivouac  song; 
No  banner  to  gleam  and  wave; 
And  oh!  these  battles  they  last  so  long — 
From  babyhood  to  the  grave! 

Yet,  faithful  still  as  a  bridge  of  stars, 
She  fights  in  her  walled-up  town — 
Fights  on  and  on  in  the  endless  wars, 
Then  silent,  unseen — goes  down. 


RIEL,  THE  REBEL. 

He  died  at  dawn  in  the  land  of  snows; 
A  priest  at  the  left,  a  priest  at  the  right; 
The  doomed  man  praying  for  his  pitiless 

foes, 

And  each  priest  holding  a  low  dim  light, 
To  pray  for  the  soul  of  the  dying. 
But  Windsor  Castle  was  far  away; 
And  Windsor  Castle  was  never  so  gay 
With  her  gorgeous  banners  flying! 

The  hero  was  hung  in  the  windy  dawn — 
'Twas  splendidly  done,  the  telegraph  said; 
A  creak  of  the  neck,  then  the  shoulders 

drawn; 
A  heave  of  the  breast— and  the  man  hung 

dead, 

And,  oh!  never  such  valiant  dying! 
While  Windsor  Castle  was  far  away 
With  its  fops  and  fools  on  that  windy  day, 
And  its  thousand  banners  flying! 

Some    starving    babes    where    a   stark 

stream  flows 
'Twixt  windy  banks  by  an  Indian  town, 


LATER    POEMS. 


I99 


A  frenzied  mother  iu  the  freezing  snows, 
While  softly  the  pitying  snow  came  down 
To  cover  the  dead  and  the  dying. 
But  Windsor  Castle  was  gorgeous  and  gay 
With  lion  banners  that  windy  day — 
With  lying  banners  flying. 


A  CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  CUBA. 

Their  priests  are  many,  for  many  their 

sins, 

Their  sins  are  many,  for  their  land  is  fair; 
The  perfumed  waves  and  the  perfumed 

winds, 

The  cocoa-palms  and  the  perfumed  air; 
The    proud   old   Dons,    so  poor    and   so 

proud, 
So  poor  their  ghosts  can  scarce  wear  a 

shroud — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  priests  and 

prayer; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

A  proud  Spanish  Don  lies  shriven  and 

dead; 
The  cross  on  his  breast,  a  priest  at  his 

prayer; 

His  slave  at  his  feet,  his  son  at  his  head — 
A  slave's  white  face  in  her  midnight  hair; 
A  slave's  white  face,  why,  a  face  as  white, 
As  white  as  that  dead  man's  face  this 

night — 
This  town  of  Columbus  can  pray  for  the 

dead; 
Such  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  moon  hangs  dead  up  at  heaven's 

white  door; 

As  dead  as  the  isle  of  the  £,reat,  warm  seas; 
As  dead  as  the  Don,  so  proud  and  so  poor, 
With  two  quite  close  by  the  bed  on  their 

knees; 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 


And   both  in   tears    for  the    proud    man 

dead — 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  tears,  if  you 

please; 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land. 

Aye,  both  are  in  tears;  for  a  child  might 

trace 
In  the  face  of  the  slave,  as  the  face  of  the 

son, 
The  same  proud  look  of  the  dead  man's 

face — 

The  beauty  of  one;  and  the  valor  of  one — 
The  slave  at  his  feet,  the  son  at  his  head, 
This  night  of  Christ,  where  the  Don  lies 

dead — 
This  town  of  Columbus,  this  land  of  the 

sun 
Keeps  great  bells   clanging  in  the  palm 

land. 

The  slave  is  so  fair,   and  so  wonderful 

fair! 
A  statue  stepped  out  from  some  temple  of 

old; 
Why,  you  could  entwine  your  two  hands 

in  her  hair, 
Nor  yet  could  encompass  its  ample,  dark 

fold. 

And  oh,  that  pitiful,  upturned  face; 
Her    master  lies    dead — she    knows    her 

place. 
This  town  of  Columbus  has  hundreds  at 

prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 

The  prond  Don  dead,  and  this  son  his 

heir; 
This  slave  his  fortune.  Now,  what  shall 

he  do? 
Why,  what  should  he  do  ?  or  what  should 

he  care, 
Save  only  to  cherish  a  pride  as  true? — 

To  hide  his  shame  as  the  good  priests 
hide 


2OO 


LATER    POEMS. 


Black  sins    confessed  when   the   damned 

have  died. 
This  town  of   Columbus  has  pride  with 

her  prayer — 
And  great  bells  pealing  in  the  palm  land! 

Lo,  Christ's  own  hour  in  the  argent  seas, 
And  she,  his  sister,  his  own  bom  slave! 
His  secret  is  safe;  just  master  and  she; 
These  two,  and  the  dead  at  the  door  of 

the  grave. . . . 

And  death,  whatever  our  other  friends  do, 
Why,  death,  my  friend,  is   a  friend  most 

true— 
This  town  of  Columbus  keeps  pride  and 

keeps  prayer, 
And  great  bells  booming  in  the  palm  land. 


COMANCHE. 

A  blazing  home,  a  blood-soaked  hearth; 
Fair  woman's  hair  with  blood  upon! 
That  Ishmaelite  of  all  the  earth 
Has  like  a  cyclone,  come  and  gone — 
His  feet  are  as  the  blighting  dearth; 
His  hands  are  daggers  drawn. 

"  To  horse!  to  horse!"  the  rangers  shout, 
And  red  revenge  is  on  his  track! 
The  black-haired  Bedouin  en  route 
Looks  like  a  long,  bent  line  of  black. 
He  does  not  halt  nor  turn  about; 
He  scorns  to  once  look  back. 

But  on!  right  on  that  line  of  black, 
Across  the  snow-white,  sand-sown  pass; 
The  bearded  rangers  on  their  track 
Bear  thirsty  sabers  bright  as  glass. 
Yet  not  one  red  man  there  looks  back; 
His  nerves  are  braided  brass. 


At  last,  at  last,  their  mountain  came 
To  clasp  its  children  in  their  flight! 


Up,  up  from  out  the  sands  of  flame 
They  clambered,  bleeding  to  their  height; 
This  savage  summit,  now  so  tame, 
Their  lone  star,  that  dread  night! 

"Huzzah!     Dismount!  "     the     captain 

cried. 

"  Huzzah!  the  rovers  cease  to  roam! 
The  river  keeps  yon  farther  side, 
A  roaring  cataract  of  foam. 
They  die,  they  die  for  those  wh®  died 
Last  night  by  hearth  and  home!  " 

His  men  stood  still  beneath  the  steep; 
The  high,  still  moon  stood  like  a  nun. 
The  horses  stood  as  willows  weep; 
Their  weary  heads  drooped  every  one. 
But  no  man  there  had  thought  of  sleep; 
Each  waited  for  the  sun. 


Vast  nun- white  moon!   Her  silver  rill 
Of  snow-white  peace  she  ceaseless  poured; 
The  rock-built  battlement  grew  still, 
The  deep-down  river  roared  and  roared. 
But  each  man  there  with  iron  will 
Leaned  silent  on  his  sword. 


Hark!     See  what  light  starts  from  the 

steep! 

And  hear,  ah,  hear  that  piercing  sound. 
It  is  their  lorn  death-song  they  keep 
In  solemn  and  majestic  round. 
The  red  fox  of  these  deserts  deep 
At  last  is  run  to  ground. 


Oh,    it    was    weird, — that    wild,    pent 

horde! 
Their  death-lights,  their  death-wails  each 

one. 

The  river  in  sad  chorus  roared 
And  boomed  like  some  great  funeral  gun. 
The  while  each  ranger  nursed  his  sword 
And  waited  for  the  sun. 


LATER    POEMS. 


201 


Then  sudden  star-tipped  mountains  topt 
With  flame  beyond!    And  watch-fires  ran 
To  where  white  peaks  high  heaven  propt; 
And  stars  and  lights  left  scarce  a  span. 
Why  none  could  say  where  death-lights 

stopt 
Or  where  red  stars  began! 

And    then  such    far,    wild   wails    that 

caine 

In  tremulous  and  pitying  flight 
From  star-lit  peak  and  peak  of  flame! 
Wails  that  had  lost  their  way  that  night 
And  knocked  at  each  heart's  door  to  claim 
Protection  in  their  flight. 

0,  chu-lu-le!  0,  chu-lu-lof 
A  thousand  red  hands  reached  in  air, 
O,  chu-lu-le!    O,  chu-lu-lo! 
While  midnight  housed  in  midnight  hair — 
O,  chu-lu-le/    O,  chu-lu-lo! 
Their  one  last  wailing  prayer. 

And  all  night  long,  nude  Rachels  poured 
Melodious  pity  one  by  one 

From  mountain  tops The  river  roared 

Sad  requiem  for  his  braves  undone. 
The  while  each  ranger  nursed  his  sword 
And  waited  for  the  sun. 


THE   SOLDIERS'    HOME,    WASHING 
TON. 

The  monument,  tipped  with  electric  fire, 
Blazed  high  in  a  halo  of  light  below 
My  low  cabin  door  in  the  hills  that  inspire; 
And  the  dome  of  the  Capitol  gleamed  like 

snow 

In  a  glory  of  light,  as  higher  and  higher 
This  wondrous  creation  of  man  was  sent 
To  challenge  the  lights  of  the  firmament. 

A  tall  man,  tawny  and  spare  as  bone, 
With  battered  old  hat  and  with  feet  half 
bare, 


With  the  air  of  a  soldier  that  was  all  his 

owii — 

Aye,  something  more  than  a  soldier's  air- 
Came  clutching  a  staff,  with  a   face  like 

stone; 
Limped  in  through  my  gate — and  I  thought 

to  beg — 
Tight  clutching  a  staff,  slow  dragging  a 

leg. 

The  bent  new  moon,  like  a  simitar, 
Kept  peace  in  Heaven.     All  earth  lay  still. 
Some  sentinel  stars  stood  watch  afar, 
Some  crickets  kept  clanging  along  the  hill, 
As  the  tall,  stern  relic  of  blood  and  war 
Limped  in,  and,   with  hand  up  to  brow 

half  raised, 
Limped  up,  looked  about,  as  one  dazed  or 

crazed. 

His  gaunt   face   pleading  for  food  and 

rest, 

His  set  lips  white  as  a  tale  of  shame, 
His  black  coat  tight  to  a  shirtless  breast, 
His  black  eyes  burning  in  mine-like  flame; 
But  never  a  word  from  his  set  lips  came 
As  he  whipped  in  line  his  battered  old  leg, 
And  his  knees  made  mouths,  and  as  if  to 


Aye!  black  were  his  eyes;  but  doubtful 

and  dim 

Their  vision  of  beautiful  earth,  I  think. 
And  I  doubt  if  the  distant,  dear  worlds  to 

him 
Were  growing  brighter  as  he  neared  the 

brink 
Of  dolorous  seas   where  phantom   ships 

swim. 
For  his  face  was  as  hard  as  the  hard,  thin 

hand 
That  clutched  that  staff  like  an  iron  band. 

"  Sir,    I   am  a  soldier'*1    The  battered 
old  hat 


202 


LATER    POEMS. 


Stood  up  as    he  spake,   like    to  one   on 

parade — 
Stood  taller  and  braver  as  he  spake  out 

that— 
And  the  tattered  old  coat,  that  was  tightly 

laid 
To  the  battered  old  breast,  looked  so  trim 

thereat 
That  I  knew  the  mouths  of  the  battered 

old  leer 
That  had  opened  wide  were  not  made  to 

beg. 

"I  have  wandered  and  wandered  this 
twenty  year: 

Searched  up  and  down  for  my  regiments. 

Have  they  gone  to  that  field  where  no  foes 
appear? 

Have  they  pitched  in  Heaven  their  cloud- 
white  tents? 

Or,  tell  me,  my  friend,  shall  I  find  them 
here 

On  the  hill  beyond,  at  the  Soldiers'  Home, 

Where  the  weary  soldiers  have  ceased  to 
roam? 


"Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier; 
Is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home? 
There  is  plenty  and  rest  for  us  all,  I  hear, 
And  a  bugler,  bidding  us  cease  to  roam, 
Hides  over  the  hill  all  the  livelong  year — 
Eides  calling  and  calling  the  brave  to  come 
And  rest  and  rest  in  that  Soldiers'  Home. 


"Is  this,  sir,  the  way?    I  wandered  in 

here 

Just  as  one  oft  will  at  the  close  of  day. 
Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier! 
Now,  the  Soldiers'  Home,  sir.     Is  this  the 

way? 
I  have  wandered  and  wandered  this  twenty 

year, 

Seeking  some  trace  of  my  regiments 
Sabered  and  riddled  and  torn  to  rents. 


"  Aye,  I  am  a  soldier  and  a  brigadier! 
A  battered  old  soldier  in  the  dusk  of  his 

day; 
But  you  don't  seem  to  heed,  or  you  don't 

seem  to  hear, 
Though,    meek  as  I  may,  I  ask  for  the 

way 
To  the  Soldiers'  Home,  which  must  be 

quite  near, 
While    under  your   oaks,   in    your   easy 

chair, 
You  sit  and  you  sit,  and  you  stare  and 

you  stare. 

«'  What  battle?  What  deeds  did  I  do  in 
the  fight? 

Why,  sir,  I  have  seen  green  fields  turn  as 
red 

As  yonder  red  town  in  that  marvelous 
light! 

Then  the  great  blazing  guns!  Then  the 
ghastly  white  dead — 

But,  tell  me,  I  faint,  I  must  cease  to 
roam! 

This  battered  leg  aches!  Then  this  sa 
bered  old  head — 

Is— is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home? 

"Why,  I  hear  men  say  't  is  a  Paradise 
On  the  green  oak  hills  by  the  great  red 

town; 
That  many  old  comrades  shall  meet  my 

eyes; 
That   a  tasseled   young   trooper  rides  up 

and  rides  down, 
With  bugle  horn  blowing  to  the  still  blue 

skies, 
Kides  calling  and  calling  us  to  rest  and  to 

stay 
In  that  Soldiers'  Home.    Sir,  is  this  the 

way? 

••  My  leg  is  so  lame!    Then  this  sabered 

old  head — 
\h!  pardon  me.  sir,  I  never  complain; 


LATER    POEMS. 


203 


But  the  road  is  so  rough,  as  I  just  now 
said; 

And  then  there  is  this  something  that 
troubles  my  brain. 

It  makes  the  light  dance  from  you  Capi 
tol's  dome; 

It  makes  the  road  dim  as  I  doubtfully 
tread — 

And— sir,  is  this  the  way  to  the  Soldier's 
Home? 

"  From  the  first  to  the  last  in  that  des 
perate  war — 

Why,  I  did  my  part.     If  I  did  not  fall, 
A  hair's   breadth   measure   of  this    skull- 
bone  scar 
Was  all  that  was  wanting;  and  then  this 

ball— 

But  what  cared  I?    Ah!  better  by  far 
Have  a  sabered  old  head  and  a  shattered 

old  knee 

To  the  end,  than  not  had  the  praise  of 
Lee— 

"What!    What  do  I  hear?    No  home 

there  for  me  ? 
Why,  I  heard  men  say  that  the  war  was  at 

end! 
Oh,  my  hea<f  swims  so;  and  I  scarce  can 

see! 
But   a   soldier's  a  soldier,    I    think,    my 

friend, 

Wherever  that  soldier  may  chance  to  be! 
And  wherever  a  soldier    may   chance  to 

roam, 
Why,    a   Soldiers'    Home   is    a    soldier's 

home!  " 

He  turned  as  to  go;  but  he  sank  to  the 
grass; 

And  I  lifted  my  face  to  the  firmament; 

For  I  saw  a  sentinel  white  star  pass, 

Leading  the  way  the  old  soldier  went. 

And  the  light  shone  bright  from  the-  Capi 
tol's  dome, 


Ah,    brighter  from  Washington's   monu 
ment, 

Lighting  his  way  to  the  Soldiers'  Home. 
THE  CABIN,  Washington,  D.  C. 


OLIVE. 

Dove-borne  symbol,  olive  bough; 
Dove-hued  sign  from  God  to  men, 
As  if  still  the  dove  and  thou 
Kept  companionship  as  then. 

Dove-hued,  holy  branch  of  peace, 
Antique,  all-enduring  tree; 
Deluge  and  the  floods  surcease — 
Deluge  and  Gethsemane. 


THE   BATTLE    FLAG  AT  SHENAN- 
DOAH. 

The    tented     field     wore     a     wrinkled 

frown, 
And    the   emptied   church  from   the  hill 

looked  down 
On   the   emptied  road   and   the    emptied 

town, 
That  summer  Sunday  morning. 

And  here  was  the  blue,   and  there  was 

the  gray; 

And  a  wide  green  valley  rolled  away 
Between  where  the  battling  armies  lay, 
That  sacred  Sunday  morning. 

And  Custer  sat,  with  impatient  will, 
His    restless    horse,     'mid    his    troopers 

still, 
As  he  watched  with  glass  from  the  oak-set 

hill, 
That  silent  Sunday  morning. 

Then    fast   he  began   to   chafe  and    to 

fret; 
"There's  a  battle  flag  on  a  bayonet 


204 


LATER    POEMS. 


Too  close  to  my  own  true  soldiers  set 
For  peace  this  Sunday  morning!  " 

"Kide  over,  some  one,"  he  haughtily 

said, 
"And  bring  it  to  me!    Why,  in  bars  blood 

red 

And  in  stars  I  will  stain  it,  and  overhead 
Will  flaunt  it  this  Sunday  morning!  " 

Then   a  West-born  lad,    pale-faced  and 

slim, 

Rode  out,  and  touching  his  cap  to  him, 
Swept  down,  swept  swift  as  Spring  swal 
lows  swim, 
That  anxious  Sunday  morning. 

On,  on  through  the  valley!  up,  up,  any 
where! 

That  pale-faced  lad  like  a  bird  through  the 
air 

Kept  on  till  he  climbed  to  the  banner 
there 

That  bravest  Sunday  morning! 

And  he  caught  up  the  flag,  and  aroivud 

his  waist 

He  wound  it  tight,  and  he  turned  in  haste, 
And  swift  his  perilous  route  retraced 
That  daring  Sunday  morning. 

All  honor  and  praise  to  the  trusty  steed! 
Ah!  boy,  and  banner,  and  all  God  speed! 
God's  pity  for  you  in  your  hour  of  need 
This  deadly  Sunday  morning. 


O,  deadly  shot!  and  O,  shower  of  lead! 
O,  iron  rain  on  the  brave,  bare  head! 
Why,  even  the  leaves  from  the  trees  fall 

dead 
This  dreadful  Sunday  morning! 

But  he  gains  the  oaks!     Men  cheer  in 

their  might! 

Brave  Ouster  is  laughing  in  his  delight! 
Why,  he  is  embracing  the  boy  outright 
This  glorious  Sunday  morning! 

But,  soft!    Not  a  word  has  the  pale  boy 

said. 
He  unwinds  the  flag.    It  is  starred,  striped, 

red 
With  his  heart's  best  blood;  and  he  falls 

down  dead, 
In  God's  still  Sunday  morning. 

So,  wrap  this  flag  to  his  soldier's  breast; 
Into  stars  and  stripes   it  is   stained   and 

blest; 

And  under  the  oaks  let  him  rest  and  rest 
Till  God's  great  Sunday  morning. 


THE  LOST  REGIMENT.* 

The  dying  land  cried;  they  heard  her 
death-call, 

These  bent  old  men  stopped,  listened  in 
tent; 

Then  rusty  old  muskets  rushed  down  from 
the  wall, 


*In  a  pretty  little  village  of  Louisiana  destroyed  by  shells  toward  the  end  of  the  war,  on  a  bayou  back  from 
the  river,  a  great  number  of  very  old  men  had  been  left  by  their  sons  and  grandsons,  while  they  went  to  the  war. 
And  these  old  men,  many  of  them  veterans  of  other  wars,  formed  themselves  in  to  a  regiment,  made  for  themselves 
uniforms,  picked  up  old  flintlock  guns,  even  mounted  a  rusty  old  cannon,  and  so  prepared  to  go  to  battle  if  ever 
the  war  came  within  their  reach.  Toward  the  close  of  the  war  some  gunboats  came  down  the  river  shelling  the  / 
shore.  The  old  men  heard  the  firing,  and,  gathering  together,  they  set  out  with  their  old  muskets  and  rusty  old 
cannon  to  try  to  reach  the  river  over  the  corduroy  road  through  the  cypress  swamp.  They  marched  out  right  merrily 
that  hot  day,  shouting  and  bantering  to  encourage  each  other,  the  dim  fires  of  their  old  eyes  burning  with  desire 
of  battle,  although  not  one  of  them  was  young  enough  to  stand  erect.  And  they  never  came  back  any  more.  T 
shells  from  the  gunboats  set  the  dense  and  sultry  woods  on  fire.  The  old  men  were  shut  in  by  the  flames-the  gray 
beards  and  the  gray  moss  aud  the  gray  smoke  together. 


LATER    POEMS. 


205 


And  squirrel-guns  gleamed  in  that  regi 
ment, 

And  grandsires  marched,  old  muskets  in 
hand — 

The  last  men  left  in  the  old  Southland. 

The  gray  grandsires!     They  were  seen 

to  reel, 
Their   rusty   old    muskets    a    wearisome 

load; 
They  marched,  scarce  tall  as  the  cannon's 

wheel, 
Marched   stooping   on    up   the    corduroy 

road; 
These   gray    old    boys,     all    broken   and 

bent, 
Marched  out,  the  gallant  last  regiment. 

But  oh!  that  march  through  the  cypress 

trees, 

When  zest  and  excitement  had  died  away! 
That  desolate  march  through  the  marsh  to 

the  knees — 
The  gray  moss  mantling  the  battered  and 

gray— 
These    gray   grandsires    all    broken    and 

bent — 
The  gray  moss  mantling  the  regiment. 

The   gray  bent   men    and   the    mosses 

gray; 

The  dull  dead  gray  of  the  uniform! 
The  dull  dead  skies,   like   to   lead    that 

day, 

Dull,  dead,  heavy  and  deathly  warm! 
Oh,  what  meant   more   than   the   cypress 

meant, 
With  its  mournful  moss,  to  that  regiment  ? 

That  deadly  march  through  the  marshes 

deep! 

That  sultry  day  and  the  deeds  in  vain! 
The  rest  on  the  cypress  roots,  the  sleep — 
The  sleeping  never  to  rise  again! 


The  rust  on  the  guns;  the  rust  and  the 

rent — 
That  dying  and  desolate  regiment! 

The  muskets   left  leaning  against   the 

trees, 
The  cannon  wheels  clogged  from  the  moss 

o'erhead, 
The  cypress  trees   bending  on   obstinate 

knees 
As   gray  men  kneeling  by  the  gray  men 

dead! 
A    lone    bird     rising,    long    legged    and 

gray, 
Slow  rising  and  rising  and  drifting  away. 

The  dank   dead  mosses   gave  back  no 

sound, 
The  drums   lay   silent  as   the  drummers 

there; 

The  sultry  stillness  it  was  so  profound 
You     might    have    heard    an     unuttered 

prayer; 

And  ever  and  ever  and  far  away, 
Kept  drifting  that  desolate  bird  in  gray. 

The  long  gray  shrouds  of  that  cypress 

wood, 
Like  vails  that  sweep  where  the  gray  nuns 

weep — 
That    cypress    moss    o'er    the    dankness 

deep, 
Why,  the  cypress  roots  they  were  running 

blood; 
And  to  right  and  to  left  lay  an  old  man 

dead — 
A  mourning  cypress  set  foot  and  head. 


'Twas  man  hunting  men  in  the  wilder 
ness  there; 

'Twas  man  hunting  man  and  hunting  to 
slay, 

But  nothing  was  found  but  death  that 
day, 


2O6 


LATER    POEMS. 


And     possibly    God— aud    that    bird    in 

gray 
Slow  rising  and  rising  and  drifting  away. 

Now  down  in  the  swamp  where  the  gray 

men  fell 

The  fireflies  volley  and  volley  at  night, 
And  black  men  belated  are  heard  to  tell 
Of  the  ghosts  in  gray  in  a  mimic  fight — 
Of  the  ghosts  of  the  gallant  old  men  in 

gray 
Who  silently  died  in  the  swamp  that  day. 


CUSTEK. 

Oh,  it  were  better  dying  there 
On  glory's  front,  with  trumpet's  blare, 
And  battle's  shout  blent  wild  about— 
The  sense  of  sacrifice,  the  roar 
Of  war!     The  soul  might  well  leap  out — 
The  brave,  white  soul  leap  boldly  out 
The  door  of  wounds,  and  up  the  stair 
Of  heaven  to  God's  open  door, 
While  yet  the  knees  were  bent  in  prayer. 


THE  WOULD  IS  A  BETTER  WOELD. 

Aye,  the  world  is  a  better  old  world  to 
day! 
And  a  great  good  mother  this   earth  of 

curs; 

Her  white  to-morrows  are  a  white  stair 
way 

To  lead  us  up  to  the  star-lit  flowers— 
The  spiral  to-morrows  that  one  by  one 
We  climb  and  we  climb  in  the  face  of  the 


Aye,  the  world  is  a  braver  old  world  to 
day! 

For  many  a  hero  dares  bear  with  wrong- 
Will  laugh  at  wrong  and  will  turn  away; 


Will   whistle   it   down    the  wind   with  a 

song- 
Dares  slay  the  wrong  with  his  splendid 

scorn! 
The  bravest  old  hero  that  ever  was  born! 


OUTSIDE  OF  CHUECH. 

It  seems  to  me  a  grandest  thing 
To  save  the  soul  from  perishing 
By  planting  it  where  heaven's  rain 
May  reach  and  make  it  grow  again. 

It  seems  to  me  the  man  who  leaves 
The  soul  to  perish  is  as  one 
Who  gathers  up  the  empty  sheaves 
When  all  the  golden  grain  is  done. 


DOWN  THE  MISSISSIPPI  AT  NIGHT. 

Sowing  the  waves  with  a  fiery  rain, 
Leaving  behind  us  a  lane  of  light, 
Weaving  a  web  in  the  woof  of  night, 
Cleaving  a  continent's  wealth  in  twain. 

Lighting  the  world  with  a  way  of  flame, 
Writing,  even  as  the  lightnings  write 
High   over  the  awful  arched  forehead  of 

night, 
Jehovah's  dread,  unutterable  name. 


A  NUBIAN  FACE  ON  THE  NILE. 

I 

One  night  we  touched  the  lily  shore, 
And  then  passed  on,  in  night  indeed, 
Against  the  far  white  waterfall. 
I  saw  no  more,  shall  know  no  more 
Of  her  for  aye.    And  you  who  read 
This  broken  bit  of  dream  will  smile, 
Half  vexed  that  I  saw  aught  at  all. 


LATER    POEMS. 


2O7 


The  waves  struck  strophes  on  the  shore 
And  all  the  sad  song  of  the  oar 
That  long,  long  night  against  the  Nile, 
Was:     Nevermore  and  nevermore 
This  side  that  shadowy  shore  that  lies 
Below  the  leafy  Paradise. 


LA  EXPOSICION. 

NEW   ORLEANS. 

The  banners !     The  bells !    The  red  ban 
ners! 

The  rainbows  of  banners!     The  chimes! 
The  music  of  stars!     The  sweet  manners 
Of  peace  in  old  pastoral  times! 

The  coming  of  nations !    Kings  bringing 
Rich  gifts  to  Republics!     The  trees 
Of  paradise,  and  birds  singing 
By  the  bank  of  De  Soto's  swift  seas! 


LINCOLN  PARK. 

Unwalled  it  lies,  and  open  as  the  sun 
When  God  swings  wide  the  dark  doors  of 

the  East. 
Oh,   keep  this   one   spot,   still   keep  this 

one, 
Where  tramp  or  banker,  laymen  or  high 

priest, 

May  equal  meet  before  the  face  of  God: 
Yea,  equals  stand  upon  that  common  sod 
Where  they  shall  one  day  equals  be 
Beneath,  for  aye,  and  all  eternity. 


THE  RIVER  OF  REST. 

A  beautiful  stream  is  the  River  of  Rest; 
The   still,  wide   waters   sweep   clear  and 

cold, 
A  tall  mast  crosses  a  star  in  the  west, 


A  white  sail  gleams  in  the  west  world's 

gold: 
It   leans   to   the   shore   of    the   River  of 

Rest— 
The  lily-lined  shore  of  the  River  of  Rest. 

The  boatman  rises,  he  reaches  a  hand, 
He   knows   you   well,   he   will   steer  you 

true, 

And  far,  so  far,  from  all  ills  upon  land, 
From  hates,  from  fates  that  pursue  and 

pursue; 

Far  over  the  lily-lined  River  of  Rest — 
Dear  mystical,  magical  River  of  Rest. 

A  storied,  sweet  stream  is  this  River  of 

Rest; 
The  souls   of   all   time  keep  its  ultimate 

shore; 
And  journey  you    east    or    journey  you 

west, 
Unwilling,    or    willing,     sure    footed    or 

sore, 
You   surely  will   come   to   this   River  of 

Rest— 
This  beautiful,  beautiful  River  of  Rest. 


THE  NEW  PRESIDENT. 

Granite  and  marble  and  granite, 
Corridor,  column  and  dome! 
A  capitol  huge  as  a  planet 
And  massive  as  marble-built  Rome. 


Stair  steps  of  granite  to  glory! 
Go  up  with  thy  face  to  the  sun; 
They  are  stained  with  the  footsteps  and 

story 
Of  giants  and  battles  well  won. 

Stop — stand   on  this  stairway  of  gran 
ite, 
Lo!  Arlington,  storied  and  still, 


208 


LATER    POEMS. 


With  a  lullaby  hush.     But  the  land  it 
Springs  fresh  as  that  sun-fronted  hill. 

Beneath  us  stout-hearted  Potomac 
In  majesty  moves  to  the  sea — 
Beneath  us  a  sea  of  proud  people 
Moves  on,  undivided  as  he. 

Yea,  strife  it  is  over  and  ended 
For  all  the  days  under  the  sun; 
The  banners  unite  and  are  blended 
As  moonlight  and  sunlight  in  one. 

Lo!  banners  and  banners  and  banners, 
Broad  star-balanced  banners  of  blue — 
If  a  single  star  fell  from  fair  heaven, 
Why,  what  would  befall  us,  think  you  ? 


MONTGOMERY  AT  QUEBEC. 

Sword  in  hand  he  was  slain; 
The  snow  his  winding  sheet; 
The  grinding  ice  at  his  feet — 
The  river  moaning  in  pain. 

Pity  and  peace  at  last; 
Flowers  for  him  to-day 
Above  on  the  battlements  gray — 
And  the  river  rolling  past. 


BY  THE  BALBOA  SEAS. 

The  golden  fleece  is  at  our  feet, 
Our  hills  are  girt  in  sheen  of  gold; 
Our  golden  flower-fields  are  sweet 
With  honey  hives.     A  thousand-fold 
More  fair  our  fruits  on  laden  stem 
Than  Jordan  tow'rd  Jerusalem. 

Behold  this  mighty  sea  of  seas! 
The  ages  pass  in  silence  by. 
Gold  apples  of  Hesperides 


Hang  at  our  God-land  gates  for  aye. 
Our  golden  shores  have  golden  keys 
Where  sound  and  sing  the  Balboa  seas. 


MAGNOLIA  BLOSSOMS. 

The  broad  magnolia's  blooms  are  white; 
Her  blooms  are  large,  as  if  the  moon 
Had  lost  her  way  some  lazy  night, 
And  lodged  here  till  the  afternoon. 

Oh,  vast  white  blossoms  breathing  love! 
White  bosom  of  my  lady  dead, 
In  your  white  heaven  overhead 
I  look,  and  learn  to  look  above. 


CALIFOKNIA'S  CHRISTMAS. 

The  stars  are  large  as  lilies !     Morn 
Seems  some  ilhimined  story— 
The  story  of  our  Savior  born, 
Told  from  old  turrets  hoary — 
The  full  moon  smiling  tips  a  horn 
And  hies  to  bed  in  glory! 

My  sunclad  city  walks  in  light 
And  lasting  summer  weather; 
Red  roses  bloom  on  bosoms  white 
And  rosy  cheeks  together. 
If  you  should  smite  one  cheek,  still  smite 
For  she  will  turn  the  other. 

The  thronged  warm  street  tides  to  and 

fro 

And  Love,  roseclad,  discloses. 
The  only  snowstorm  we  shall  know 
Is  this  white  storm  of  roses — 
It  seems  like  Maytime,  mating  so, 
And— Nature  counting  noses. 

Soft  sea  winds  sleep  on  yonder  tide; 
You  hear  some  boatmen  rowing. 


LATER    POEMS. 


209 


Their  sisters'  hands  trail  o'er  the  side; 
They  toy  with  warm  waves  flowing; 
Their  laps  are  laden  deep  and  wide 
From  rose-trees  green  and  growing. 

Such  roses  white!  such  roses  red! 
Such  roses  richly  yellow! 
The  air  is  like  a  perfume  fed 
From  autumn  fruits  full  mellow — 
But  see!  a  brother  bends  his  head, 
An  oar  forgets  its  fellow! 

Give  me  to  live  in  land  like  this, 
Nor  let  me  wander  further; 
Some  sister  in  some  boat  of  bliss 
And  I  her  only  brother — 
Sweet  paradise  on  earth  it  is; 
I  would  not  seek  another. 


THOSE  PEKILOUS  SPANISH  EYES. 

Some  fragrant  trees, 
Some  flower-sown  seas 
Where  boats  go  up  and  down, 
And  a  sense  of  rest 
To  the  tired  breast 
In  this  beauteous  Aztec  town. 


But   the    terrible    thing  in    this   Aztec 

town 
That  will  blow  men's  rest  to  the  stormiest 

skies, 
Or    whether    they    journey    or    they    lie 

down — 
Those  perilous  Spanish  eyes! 

Snow  walls  without, 
Drawn  sharp  about 
To  prop  the  sapphire  skies! 
Two  huge  gate  posts, 
Snow-white  like  ghosts — 
Gate  posts  to  paradise! 


But,  oh!  turnback  from  the  high-walled 

town! 
There  is  trouble  enough  in  this  world,  I 

surmise, 

Without  men  riding  in  regiments  down — 
Oh,  perilous  Spanish  eyes! 
MEXICO  CITY,  1880. 


NEWPORT   NEWS. 

The   huge   sea    monster,    the    "  Merri- 

mac; " 

The  mad  sea  monster,  the  "  Monitor;  " 
You  may  sweep  the  sea,  peer  forward  and 

back, 

But  never  a  sign  or  a  sound  of  war. 
A  vulture  or  two  in  the  heavens  blue; 
A  sweet  town  building,  a  boatman's  call: 
The  far  sea-song  of  a  pleasure  crew; 
The  sound  of  hammers.     And  that  is  all. 


And  where  are  the  monsters  that  tore 

this  main? 
And  where  are  the  monsters  that  shook 

this  shore? 
The  sea  grew  mad!     And  the  shore  shot 

flame! 

The  mad  sea  monsters  they  are  no  more. 
The  palm,  and  the  pine,  and  the  sea  sands 

brown; 

The  far  sea  songs  of  the  pleasure  crews; 
The  air  like  balm  in  this  building  town — 
And  that  is  the  picture  of  Newport  News. 


THE  COMING  OF  SPEING. 

My  own  and  my  only  Love  some  night 
Shall  keep  her  tryst,  shall  come  from  the 

South, 

And  oh,  her  robe  of  magnolia  white! 
And     oh,     and    oh,    the    breath    of    her 

mouth! 


210 


LATER    POEMS. 


And  oh,  her  grace  in  the  grasses  sweet! 
And  oh,  her  love  in  the  leaves  new  born! 
And  oh,  and  oh,  her  lily-white  feet 
Set  daintily  down  in  the  dew-wet  morn! 

The  drowsy  cattle  at  night  shall  kneel 
And  give  God  thanks,  and  shall  dream  and 

rest; 

The  stars  slip  down  and  a  golden  seal 
Be  set  on  the  meadows  my  Love  has  blest. 

Come  back,  my  Love,  come  sudden, 
come  soon. 

The  world  lies  waiting  as  the  cold  dead 
lie; 

The  frightened  winds  wail  and  the  crisp- 
curled  moon 

Eides,  wrapped  in  clouds,  up  the  cold  gray 
sky. 

Oh,  Summer,  my  Love,   my  first,  last 

Love! 

I  sit  all  day  by  Potomac  here, 
Waiting  and  waiting  the  voice  of  the  dove; 
Waiting  my  darling,  my  own,  my  dear. 

THE  CABIN,  Washington,  D.  C. 


OUR  HEEOES  OF  TO-DAY, 
i. 

With   high   face   held  to   her  ultimate 

star, 
With  swift  feet  set  to  her  mountains  of 

gold, 
This  new-built  world,  where  the  wonders 

are, 
She  has  built  new  ways  from  the  ways  of 

old. 

ii. 

Her  builders  of  worlds  are  workers  with 

hands; 

Her   true  world -builders   are  builders  of 
these, 


The  engines,  the  plows;  writing  poems  in 

sands 
Of  gold  in  our  golden  Hesperides. 


in. 

I  reckon  these  builders  as  gods  among 

men: 
I  count  them  creators,  creators  who 

knew 
The  thrill  of  dominion,  of  conquest,,  as 

when 
God  set  His  stars  spinning  their  spaces  of 

blue. 

IV. 

A  song  for  the  groove,  and  a  song  for 

the  wheel, 
And   a   roaring    song   for    the    rumbling 

car; 
But  away  with  the  pomp  of  the  soluier's 

steel, 
And  away  forever  with  the  trade  of  war. 


v. 

The  hero  of  time  is  the  hero  of  thought; 
The     hero     who    lives    is    the    hero    of 

peace; 
And   braver   his   battles    than   ever  were 

fought, 
From  Shiloh  back  to  the  battles  of  Greece. 


The  hero  of  heroes  is  the  engineer; 
The   hero  of   height  and  of  gnome-built 

deep, 

Whose  only  fear  is  the  brave  man's  fear 
That   some  one  waiting  at  home  might 

weep. 

VII. 

The  hero  we  love  in  this  land  to-day 
Is   the   hero  who  lightens   some   fellow- 
man's  load — 


LATER    POEMS. 


211 


Who  makes  of  the  mountain  some  pleasant 
highway; 

Who  makes  of  the  desert  some  blossom- 
sown  road. 

VIII. 

Then  hurrah!  for  the  land  of  the  golden 

downs, 

For  the  golden  land  of  the  silver  horn; 
Her   heroes   have  built    her   a   thousand 

towns, 
But  never  destroyed  her  one   blade    of 

corn. 


BY  THE  LOWER  MISSISSIPPI. 

The    king    of    rivers    has    a    dolorous 

shore, 

A  dreamful  dominion  of  cypress-trees, 
A  gray  bird  rising  forever  more, 
And   drifting   away   toward  the   Mexican 

seas — 

A  lone  bird  seeking  for  some  lost  mate, 
So  dolorous,  lorn  and  desolate. 


Tho  shores  are  gray  as   the  sands  are 

gray; 
And  gray  are  the  trees  in  their  cloaks  of 

moss; — 

That  gray  bird  rising  and  drifting  away, 
Slow  dragging  its  weary  long  legs  across — 
So     weary,    just    over    the    gray  wood's 

brink; 
It  wearies  one,  body  and  soul,  to  think. 


These     vast    gray    levels     of    cypress 

wood, 
The  gray  soldiers'  graves;  and  so,  God's 

will— 
These  cypress-trees'  roots  are  still  running 

blood; 


The    smoke    of    battle    in    their   mosses 

still- 
That  gray  bird  wearily  drifting  away 
Was  startled  some  long-since  battle  day. 


HEB  PICTUBE. 

I  see  her  now — the  fairest  thing 
That  ever  mocked  man's  picturing, 
I  picture  her  as  one  who  drew 
Aside  life's  curtain  and  looked  through 
The  mists  of  all  life's  mystery 
As  from  a  wood  to  open  sea. 


I  picture  her  as  one  who  knew 
How  rare  is  truth  to  be  untrue — 
As  one  who  knew  the  awful  sign 
Of  death,  of  life,  of  the  divine 
Sweet  pity  of  all  loves,  all  hates, 
Beneath  the  iron-footed  fates. 


I  picture  her  as  seeking  peace, 
And  olive  leaves  and  vine-set  land; 
While  strife  stood  by  on  either  hand, 
And  wrung  her  tears  like  rosaries. 
I  picture  her  in  passing  rhyme 
As  of,  yet  not  a  part  of,  these — 
A  woman  born  above  her  time. 


The  soft,  wide  eyes  of  wonderment 
That  trusting   looked  you   through   and 

through; 
The  sweet,    arched  mouth,   a   bow  new 

bent, 
That  sent  love's  arrow  swift  and  true. 


That  sweet,  arched  mouth!     The  Orient 
Hath  not  such  pearls  in  all  her  stores, 
Nor  all  her  storied,  spice-set  shores 
Have  fragrance  such  as  it  hath  spent. 


212 


LATER    POEMS. 


DROWNED. 

A   fig   for  her  story  of    shame  and   of 

pride! 
She  strayed  in  the  night  and  her  feet  fell 

astray; 

The  great  Mississippi  was  glad  that  day, 
And  that  is  the  reason  the  poor  girl  died; 
The  great  Mississippi  was  glad,  I  say, 
And  splendid  with  strength  in  his  fierce, 

full  pride — 
And  that  is  the  reason  the  poor  girl  died. 

And  that  was  the  reason,  from  first  to 

last; 

Down  under  the  dark,  still  cypresses  there 
The  Father  of  Waters  he  held  her  fast. 
He  kissed  her  face,  he  fondled  her  hair, 
No  more,  no  more  an  unloved  outcast, 
He  clasped  her  close  to  his  great,  strong 

breast, 
Brave  lover  that  loved  her  last  and  best: 

Around  and  around  in  her  watery  world, 
Down  under  the  boughs  where  the  bank 

was  steep, 
And  cypress  trees  kneeled  all  gnarly  and 

curled, 
Where  woods  were  dark  as  the  waters  were 

deep* 
Where  strong,  swift  waters  were  swept  and 

swirled, 
Where  the  whirlpool  sobbed  and  sucked  in 

its  breath, 
As  some  great  monster  that  is  choking  to 

death: 


Where  sweeping  and  swirling  around  and 

around 
That   whirlpool   eddied    so   dark   and   so 

deep 
That   even  a  populous  world  might  have 

drowned, 
So    surging,    so    vast,   and   so   swift   its 

sweep — 


She  rode  on  the  wave.     And  the  trees  that 

weep, 

The  solemn  gray  cypresses  leaning  o'er; 
The  roots  that  ran  blood  as  they  leaned 

from  the  shore! 

She    surely    was    drowned!      But    she 

should  have  lain  still; 
She  should  have  lain  dead  as  the   dead 

under  ground; 
She  should  have  kept  still  as  the  dead  on 

the  hill! 

But  ever  and  ever  she  eddied  around, 
And  so  nearer   and   nearer  she  drew  me 

there 
Till  her  eyes  met  mine  in  their  cold  dead 

stare. 

Then  she  looked,  and  she  looked  as  to 

look  me  through; 
And  she  came  so  close  to  my  feet  on  the 

shore; 

And  her  large  eyes,  larger  than  ever  before, 
They  ne^er  grew  weary  as  dead  men's  do. 
And  her  hair!  as  long  as  the  moss  that 

sv  ept 
From  the  cypress  trees  as  they  leaned  and 

\  /ept. 

Then  the  moon  rose  up,  and  she  came 

to  see, 

Her  long  white  fingers  slow  pointing  there; 
Why,  shoulder  to  shoulder  the  moon  with 

me 
On  the  bank  that  night,  with  her  shoulders 

bare, 
Slow  pointing  and  pointing  that  white  face 

out, 
As  it  swirled  and  it  swirled,  and  it  swirled 

about. 

There  ever  and  ever,  around  and  around, 
Those  great  sad  eyes  that  refused  to  sleep! 
Reproachful  sad  eyes  that  had  ceased  to 
weep! 


LATER    POEMS. 


213 


And  the  great  whirlpool  with  its  gurgling 

sound! 
The  reproachful  dead  that   was   not  yet 

dead! 
The  long  strong  hair  from  that  shapely 

head! 

Her  hair  was  so  long!  so  marvelous 
long, 

As  she  rode  and  she  rode  on  that  whirl 
pool's  breast; 

And  she  rode  so  swift,  and  she  rode  so 
strong, 

Never  to  rest  as  the  dead  should  rest. 

Oh,  tell  me  true,  could  her  hair  in  the 
wave 

Have  grown,  as  grow  dead  men's  in  the 
grave? 

For,  hist!  I  have  heard  that  a  virgin's 

hair 

Will  grow  in  the  grave  of  a  virgin  true, 
Will  grow  and  grow  in  the  coffin  there, 
Till  head  and  foot  it  is  filled  with  hair 
All  silken  and  soft— but  what  say  you? 
Yea,  tell  me  truly  can  this  be  true  ? 

For  oh,  her  hair  was  so  strangely  long 
That  it   bound  her  about  like  a  veil  of 

night, 

With  only  her  pitiful  face  in  sight! 
As  she  rode  so   swift,    and   she  rode  so 

strong, 
That  it  wrapped  her  about,  as  a  shroud 

had  done, 
A  shroud,  a  coffin,  and  a  veil  in  one. 

And  oh,  that  ride  on  the  whirling  tide! 
That   whirling  and  whirling  it  is  in  my 

head, 
For  the  eyes  of  my  dead  they  are  not  yet 

dead, 
Though  surely  the  lady  had   long   since 

died: 


Then   the  mourning  wood  by  the  watery 

grave; 
The  moon's  white  face  to  the  face  in  the 

wave. 

That  moon  I  shall  hate!    For  she  left 

her  place 
Unasked  up  in  heaven  to  show  me  that 

face. 

I  shall  hate  forever  the  sounding  tide; 
For  oh,  that  swirling  it  is  in  my  head 
As  it  swept  and  it  swirled  with  my  dead 

not  dead, 
As  it  gasped  and  it  sobbed  as  a  God  that 

died. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

Sing   banners   and  cannon  and  roll  of 

drum! 

The  shouting  of  men  and  the  marshaling! 
Lo!  cannon  to  cannon  and  earth  struck 

dumb! 
Oh,  battle,  in  song,  is  a  glorious  thing! 

Oh,  glorious   day,  riding   down  to  the 

fight! 

Oh,  glorious  battle  in  story  and  song! 
Oh,  godlike  man  to  die  for  the  right! 
Oh,  manlike  God  to  revenge  the  wrong! 

Yea,  riding  to  battle,  on  battle  day — 
Why,  a  soldier  is  something  more  than  a 

king! 

Bat  after  the  battle!    The  riding  away! 
Ah,  the  riding  away  is  another  thing! 


BY  THE  PACIFIC  OCEAN. 

Here  room  and  kingly  silence  keep 
Companionship  in  state  austere, 
The  dignity  of  death  is  here, 
The  large,  lone  vastness  of  the  deep. 


2I4 


LATER    POEMS. 


Here  toil  has  pitched  his  camp  to  rest, 
The  west  is  banked  against  the  west. 

Above  yon  gleaming  skies  of  gold 
One  lone  imperial  peak  is  seen; 
While  gathered  at  his  feet  in  green 
Ten  thousand  foresters  are  told. 
And  all  so  still!  so  still  the  air 
That  duty  drops  the  web  of  care. 

Beneath  the  sunset's  golden  sheaves 
The  awful  deep  walks  with  the  deep, 
Where  silent  sea  doves  slip  and  sweep, 
And  commerce  keeps  her  loom  and  weaves. 
The  dead  red  men  refuse  to  rest; 
Their  ghosts  illume  my  lurid  West. 


CHRISTMAS  BY  THE  GREAT  EIVER. 

Oh,  lion  of  the  ample  earth, 
What  sword  can  cleave  thy  sinews  through  ? 
The  south  forever  cradles  you; 
And  yet  the  great  North  gives  you  birth. 


Go  find  an  arm  so  strong,  so  sure, 
Go  forge  a  sword  so  keen,  so  true, 
That  it  can  thrust  thy  bosom  through; 
Then  may  this  union  not  endure! 

In  orange  lands  I  lean  to-day 
Against  thy  warm  tremendous  mouth, 
Oh,  tawny  lion  of  the  South, 
To  hear  what  story  you  shall  say. 

What  story  of  the  stormy  North, 
Of  frost-bound  homes,  of  babes  at  play — 
What  tales  of  twenty  States  the  day 
You  left  your  lair  and  leapt  forth: 

The  day  you  tore  the  mountain's  breast 
And  in  the  icy  Nortk  uprose, 
And  shook  your  sides  of  rains  and  snows, 
And  rushed  against  the  South  to  rest: 


Oh,  tawny  river,  what  of  they, 
The  far  North  folk?     The  maiden  sweet- 
The  ardent  lover  at  her  feet — 
What  story  of  thy  States  to-day! 


The  river  kissed  my  garment's  hem, 
And  whispered  as  it  swept  away: 
"  God's  story  in  all  States  to-day 
Is  of  a  babe  of  Bethlehem." 


GRANT  AT  SHILOH. 

The  blue  and  the  gray!    Their  work  was 

well  done! 

They  lay  as  to  listen  to  the  water's  flow. 
Some  lay  with  their  faces  upturned  to  the 

sun, 
As  seeking  to  know  what  the  gods  might 

know. 
Their  work  was  well  done,  each  soldier 

was  true. 
But  what  is  the  question  that  comes  to 

you? 

For  all   that   men  do,   for  all   that   men 

dare, 
That  river  still  runs  with  its  stateliest 

flow. 
The  sun  and  the  moon  I  scarcely  think 

care 

A  fig  for  the  fallen,  of  friend  or  of  foe. 
But  the   moss-mantled   cypress,  the   old 

soldiers  say. 
Still  mantles   in    smoke    of    that    battle 

day! 

These  men  in  the  dust!     These  pitiful 

dead! 
The  gray  and  the  blue,  the  blue  and  the 

gray, 
The  headless  trunk  and  the  trunkless 

head; 
The  image  of  God  in  the  gory  clay! 


LATER    POEMS. 


215 


And  who  was  the  bravest?     Say,  can  you 

tell 
If  Death  throws  dice  with  a  loaded  shell? 


TWILIGHT  AT  THE  HIGHTS. 
The  brave   young  city  by   the  Balboa 


Lies   compassed    about  by  the   hosts   of 

night- 
Lies  humming,  low,  like  a  hive  of  bees; 
And  the  day  lies  dead.     And  its  spirit's 

flight 

Is  far  to  the  west;  while  the  golden  bars 
That   bound  it  are  broken   to  a   dust  of 

stars. 

Come     under     my    oaks,    oh,    drowsy 

dusk! 

The  wolf  and  the  dog;  dear  incense  hour 
When    Mother    Earth    hath    a    smell    of 

musk, 
And   things    of    the    spirit    assert    their 

power — 
When  candles   are  set   to    burn    in    the 

west — 
Set  head  and  foot  to  the  day  at  rest. 


ARBOR  DAY. 

Against  our  golden  orient  dawns 
We  lift  a  living  light  to-day, 
That  shall  outshine  the  splendid  bronze 
That  lords  and  lights  that  lesser  Bay. 

Sweet  Paradise  was  sown  with  trees; 
Thy  very  name,  lorn  Nazareth, 
Means  woods,   means  sense  of  birds  and 

bees, 
And  song  of  leaves  with  lisping  breath. 

God  gave  us  Mother  Earth,  full  blest 
With  robes  of  green  in  healthful  fold; 


We  tore  the  green  robes  from  her  breast! 
We  sold  our  mother's  robes  for  gold! 

We  sold  her  garments  fair,  and  she 
Lies  shamed  and  naked  at  our  feet! 
In  penitence  we  plant  a  tree; 
We  plant  the  cross  and  count  it  meet. 

Lo,  here,  where  Balboa's  waters  toss, 
Here  in  this  glorious  Spanish  bay, 
We  plant  the  cross,  the  Christian  cross, 
The  Crusade  Cross  of  Arbor  Day. 


PETER  COOPER. 

DIED    1883. 

Give  honor  and  love  forevermore 
To  this  great  man  gone  to  rest; 
Peace  on  the  dim  Plutonian  shore, 
Rest  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 

I  reckon  him  greater  than  any  man 
That  ever  drew  sword  in  war; 
I  reckon  him  nobler  than  king  or  khan, 
Braver  and  better  by  far. 

And  wisest  he  in  this  whole  wide  land 
Of  hoarding  till  bent  and  gray; 
For  all  you  can  hold  in  your  cold  dead 

hand 
Is  what  you  have  given  away. 

So   whether  to   wander  the  stars  or  to 

rest 

Forever  hushed  and  dumb, 
He  gave  with  a  zest  and  he  gave  his  best — 
Give  him  the  best  to  come. 


THE  DEAD  MILLIONAIRE. 

The  gold  that  with  the  sunlight  lies 
In  bursting  heaps  at  dawn, 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  skies 
At  night  to  walk  upon, 


2l6 


LATER    POEMS. 


The  diamonds  gleaming  in  the  dew 
He  never  saw,  he  never  knew. 

He  got  some  gold,  dug  from  the  mud, 
Some  silver,  crushed  from  stones. 

The  gold  was  red  with  dead  men's  blood, 

The  silver  black  with  groans; 

And  when  he  died  he  moaned  aloud 

"  There'll  be  no  pocket  in  my  shroud." 


THE  LARGEB  COLLEGE. 

ON  LAYING  THE  COLLEGE  CORNER-STONE. 

Where  San  Diego  seas  are  warm, 
Where  winter  winds  from  warm  Cathay 
Sing  sibilant,  where  blossoms  swarm 
With  Hybla's  bees,  we  come  to  lay 
This  tribute  of  the  truest,  best, 
The  warmest  daughter  of  the  West. 

Here  Progress  plants  her  corner-stone 
Against  this  warm,  still,  Cortez  wave. 
In  ashes  of  the  Aztec's  throne, 
In  tunimals  of  the  Toltec's  grave, 
We  plant  this  stone,  and  from  the  sod 
Pick  painted  fragments  of  his  god. 

Here  Progress  lifts  her  torch  to  teach 
God's  pathway  through  the  pass  of  care; 
Her  altar-stone  Balboa's  Beach, 
Her  incense  warm,  sweet,  perfumed  air; 
Such    incense!    where    white     strophes 

reach 
And  lap  and  lave  Balboa's  Beach! 

We  plant  this  stone  as  some  small  seed 
Is  sown  at  springtime,  warm  with  earth; 
We  sow  this  seed  as  some  good  deed 
Is  sown,  to  grow  until  its  worth 
Shall  grow,  through  rugged  steeps  of  time, 
To  touch  the  god-built  stars  sublime. 

We  lift  this  lighthouse  by  the  sea, 
The  westmost  sea,  the  westmost  shore, 


To  guide  man's  ship  of  destiny 
When  Scylla  and  Charybdis  roar; 
To  teach  him  strength,  to  proudly  teach 
God's  grandeur,   where  His  white  palma 
reach: 

To  teach  not  Sybil  books  alone; 
Man's  books  are  but  a  climbing  stair, 
Lain  step  by  step,  like  stairs  of  stone; 
The  stairway  here,  the  temple  there — 
Man's  lampad  honor,  and  his  trust, 
The  God  who  called  him  from  the  dust. 

Man's  books  are  but  man's  alphabet, 
Beyond  and  on  his  lessons  lie — 
The  lessons  of  the  violet, 
The  large  gold  letters  of  the  sky; 
The  love  of  beauty,  blossomed  soil, 
The  large  content,  the  tranquil  toil: 

The  toil  that  nature  ever  taught, 
The  patient  toil,  the  constant  stir, 
The  toil  of  seas  where  shores  are  wrought, 
The  toil  of  Christ,  the  carpenter; 
The  toil  of  God  incessantly 
By  palm-set  laud  or  frozen  sea. 

Behold  this  sea,  that  sapphire  sky! 
Where  nature  does  so  much  for  man, 
Shall  man  not  set  his  standard  high, 
And  hold  some  higher,  holier  plan  ? 
Some  loftier  plan  than  ever  planned 
By  outworn  book  of  outworn  land  ? 

Where    God    has    done    so    much    for 

man! 

Shall  man  for  God  do  aught  at  all  ? 
The  soul  that  feeds  on  books  alone — 
I  count  that  soul  exceeding  small 
That  lives  alone  by  book  and  creed, — 
A  soul  that  has  not  learned  to  read. 

The  light  is  on  us,  and  such  light! 
Such  perfumed  warmth  of  winter  sea! 


LATER    POEMS. 


217 


Such  musky  smell  of  maiden  night! 
Such  bridal  bough  and  orange  tree! 
Such  wondrous  stars!     Yon  lily  moon 
Seems  like  some  long-lost  afternoon! 

More  perfect  than  a  string  of  pearls 
We  hold  the  full  days  of  the  year; 
The  days  troop  by  like  flower  girls, 
And  all  the  days  are  ours  here. 
Here   youth   must   learn;    here    age  may 

live 
Full  tide  each  day  the  year  can  give. 


No  frosted  wall,  no  frozen  hasp, 
Slmts  Nature's  book  from  us  to-day; 
Her  palm  leaves  lift  too  high  to  clasp; 
Her  college  walls  the  milky  way. 


The  light  is  with  us!     Read  and  lead! 
The  larger  book,  the  loftier  deed! 


THE  POEM  BY  THE  POTOMAC.* 

Paine!     The   Prison   of    France!     La- 

fayette! 

The  Bastile  key  to  our  Washington, 
Whose  feet  on  the  neck  of  tyrants  set 
Shattered  their  prisons  every  one. 
The  key  hangs   here  on  his  white  walls 

high, 
That   all  shall  see,    that  none  shall  for- 

get 
What  tyrants  have  been,  what  they  may 

be  yet; 
And  the  Potomac  rolling  by. 


*  Two  or  three  hundred  steps  to  the  right  and  up  a  general  incline  and  you  stand  on  the  broad,  high  porch  of 
Mount  Vernon. 

A  great  river  creeps  close  underneath  one  hundred  feet  or  two  below.  V/ou  might  suppose  you  could  throw  a 
atone,  standing  on  the  porch,  into  the  Potomac  as  seen  through  the  trees  that  hug  the  hillside  and  the  water's 
bank  below.  All  was  quiet,  so  quiet.  Now  and  then  a  barnyard  fowl,  back  in  the  rear,  strained  his  glossy  neck  and 
called  out  loud  and  clear  in  the  eternal  Sabbath  here;  a  flue  shaggy  dog  wallowed  and  romped  about  the  grassy 
dooryard,  while  far  out  over  the  vast  river  some  black,  wide-winged  birds  kept  circling  round  and  round.  I  went 
back  and  around  into  the  barnyard  to  inquire  what  kind  of  birds  they  were.  I  met  a  very  respectful  but  very 
stammery  negro  here.  He  took  his  cap  in  his  hand,  and  twisting  it  all  about  and  opening  his  mouth  many  times, 
he  finally  said: 

"  Do-do-dose  burds  was  created  by  de  Lord  to  p-p-pu-purify  de  y earth." 

"  But  what  do  you  call  them,  uncle?  " 

"Tur-tur-tur,"  and  he  twisted  his  cap,  backed  out,  came  forward,  winked  his  eyes,  but  could  not  go  on. 

"  Do  you  mean  turkey  buzzards  f 

"  Ya-ya-yas,  sah,  do-do-dose  burds  eats  up  de  carrion  ob  de  yearth,  sah." 

Down  yonder  is  the  tomb,  the  family  vault.  Back  in  the  rear  of  the  two  marble  coffins  about  thirty  of  the 
Washington  family  lie.  The  vault  is  locked  up  and  closed  forever.  The  key  has  been  thrown  into  the  trusty  old 
Potomac  to  lie  there  until  the  last  trump  shall  open  all  tombs. 

Let  no  one  hereafter  complain  of  having  to  live  in  a  garret  alone  and  without  a  fire.  For  here,  with  all  this 
spacious  and  noble  house  to  select  from,  the  widow  of  Washington  chose  a  garret  looking  to  the  south  and  out  upon 
his  tomb.  This  is  the  old  tomb  where  he  was  first  laid  to  rest  and  where  the  fallen  oak  leaves  are  crowding  in 
heaps  now  and  almost  filling  up  the  low,  dark  doorway. 

This  garret  has  but  one  window,  a  small  and  narrow  dormer  window,  and  is  otherwise  quite  dark.  A  bottom 
corner  of  the  door  is  cut  away  so  that  her  cat  might  come  and  go  at  wilL  And  this  is  the  saddest,  tenderest  sight 
at  Mount  Vernon.  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  could  see  this  noble  lady  sitting  here,  looking  out  upon  the  tomb  of  her 
mighty  dead,  the  great  river  sweeping  fast  beyond,  her  heart  full  of  the  memory  of  a  mighty  Nation's  birth,  wait 
ing,  waiting,  waiting. 

The  thing,  however,  of  the  most  singular  Interest  here  ia  a  key  of  the  Bastile,  presented  by  Thomas  Paine  to 
Lafayette,  who  brought  it  to  America  and  presented  it  to  Mount  Vernon.  It  hangs  here  in  a  glass  case,  massive  and 
monstrous  It  is  a  hideous,  horrible  thing,  and  has,  perhaps,  more  blood  and  misery  on  it  than  any  other  piece  of 
iron  or  steel  that  was  ever  seen. 


2l8 


LATER    POEMS. 


On  Washington's  walls  let  it  rust  and 

rust, 

And  tell  its  story  of  blood  and  of  tears, 
That  Time  still  holds  to  the  Poet's  trust, 
To  people  his  pages  for  years  and  years. 
The  monstrous  shape  on  the  white  walls 

high, 
Like  a  thief    in  chains  let    it   rot    and 

rust — 

Its  kings  and  adorers  crowned  in  dust: 
And  the  Potomac  rolling  by. 


A  DEAD  CAEPENTEE. 

What  shall  be  said  of  this  soldier  now 
dead? 

This  builder,  this  brother,  now  resting  for 
ever? 

What  shall  be  said  of  this  soldier  who 
bled 

Through  thirty-three  years  of  silent  en 
deavor  ? 


Why,  name  him  thy  hero!    Yea,  write 

his  name  down 
As   something    far    nobler,    as  braver  by 

far 
Than  purple-robed   Csesar  of  battle-torn 

town 
When  bringing  home  glittering   trophies 

of  war. 


Oh,    dark   somber  pines   of    my  starlit 

Sierras, 
Be  silent  of  song,  for  the  master  is  mute! 


The   Carpenter,    master,   is   dead  and  lo! 

there  is 
Silence  of  song  upon  nature's  draped  lute! 

Brother!     Oh,    manly  dead  brother  of 

mine! 
My  brother   by  toil  'mid  the  toiling  and 

lowly, 
My  brother  by  sign  of  this  hard  hand,  by 

sign 
Of  toil,  and  hard  toil,  that  the  Christ  has 

made  holy: 

Yea,  brother  of  all  the  brave  millions 
that  toil; 

Brave  brother  in  patience  and  silent  en 
deavor, 

Eest  on,  as  the  harvester  rich  from  his 
soil, 

Eest  you,  and  rest  you  for  ever  and  ever. 


OLD  GIB  AT  CASTLE  EOCKS.* 

His  eyes  are  dim,  he  gropes  his  way, 
His  step  is  doubtful,  slow, 
And  now  men  pass  him  by  to-day: 
But  forty  years  ago — 
Why  forty  years  ago  I  say 
Old  Gib  was  good  to  know. 


For  forty  years  ago  to-day, 
Where  cars  glide  to  and  fro, 
The  Modoc  held  the  world  at  bay, 
And  blood  was  on  the  snow. 
Ay,  forty  years  ago  I  say 
Old  Gib  was  good  to  know. 


*Parties  with  Indian  depredation  claims  against  the  Government  desiring  exact  information  touching  the  first 
trouble  with  the  Modocs,  now  nearly  forty  years  ago,  the  venerable  leader  of  the  volunteers  in  the  first  battle  made 
out,  with  his  own  hand,  the  following  quaint  account  of  it,  swore  to  it  before  a  Notary,  and  sent  it  to  Washington. 
The  italics,  capitals,  and  all  are  as  he  set  them  down  in  his  crude  but  truthful  way.— Frank  Leslie's  Magazine,  1893 
I  Reuben  P  Gibson  Was  Born  in  Lowell  Mass  in  1826  of  American  Parents,  shiped  on  board  a  whaler  of  New 
Bedford  in  1846,  Rounded  Cape  Horn,  spent  several  years  on  the  Paciffic  Ocean,  and  in  1846  landed  in  California. 
Came  to  the  Mines  in  Shasta  County  California,  and  have  lived  here  in  Shasta  County  more  than  40  years,  most  of 


LATER    POEMS. 


2I9 


Full  forty  years  ago  to-day 
This  valley  lay  in  flame; 
Up  yonder  pass  and  far  away, 
Ked  ruin  swept  the  same: 
Two  women,  with  their  babes  at  play, 
Were  butchered  in  black  shame. 


'Twas  then  with  gun  and  flashing  eye 
Old  Gib  loomed  like  a  pine; 
"Now  will  you  fight,  or  will  you  fly  ? 


I'll  take  a  fight  in  mine. 

Come  let  us  fight;  come  let  us  die!  " 

There  came  just  twenty-nine. 

Just  twenty-nine  who  dared  to  die, 
And,  too,  a  motley  crew 
Of  half -tamed  red  men;  would  they  fly, 
Or  would  they  fight  him  too? 
No  time  to  question  or  reply, 
This  was  a  time  to  do. 


which  time  I  have  been  and  am  now  a  Magistrate.  I  have  had  much  to  do  with  Indians,  and  in  1855  they  became 
Very  Restless,  and  some  of  them  took  to  the  Castle  Rocks,  Called  Castle  del  Diablo,  at  that  time  by  the  Mexicans, 
and  they— the  Hostiles  began  to  destroy  our  Property,  and  Kill  White  people.  Troops  of  the  Regular  Army  tried 
to  engage  them,  but  found  them  inaccessible.  I  then  raised  a  Company  of  Twenty-Nine  White  men  and  thirty 
Indian  (friendly)  Scouts  and  after  hard  Perilous  Marches  by  Night,  We  engaged  and  destroyed  the  Hostiles,  having 
taken  Many  Scalps.  This  battle  was  Fought  in  the  Castle  Rocks  in  this  Shasta  County  and  was  in  June  1855.  The 
hostiles  were  Modocs  and  Other  Renegades  and  this  was  the  first  Battle  in  a  war  that  Spread  all  over  the  Coast  I 
had  Some  Indians  hurt,  and  one  man  mortally  wounded,  James  Lane  by  name.  Some  Others  were  more  or  less 
hurt  with  Arrows.  Joaquin  Miller  Received  an  Arrow  in  the  face  and  Neck  at  my  Side  and  we  thought  would  die 
but  at  last  got  Well.  He  and  Mountain  Joe  had  a  Post  at  Soda  Springs  below  Castle  Rocks,  and  their  property 
had  been  destroyed  and  made  untenable.  In  all  My  Experience  I  know  of  nothing  in  Indian  warfare  so  effectual 
for  good  as  this  Campaign.  The  indians  had  Possession  of  the  lines  of  travel  connecting  Middle  and  Northern 
California  and  it  Was  impossible  for  the  Mails  to  get  through  until  the  Hostiles  were  destroyed. 

(Signed)  REUBEN  P  GIBSON 

Subscribed  and  sworn  to  before  me  this  17th  day  of  November,  1892,  and  I  hereby  certify  that  I  am  well 
acquainted  with  said  affiant  and  know  him  to  be  a  person  of  veracity  and  entitled  to  credit.    He  is  a  Justice  of  the 

Peace  in  this  Shasta  County 

F.  P.  PRIMM, 

[SEAL.]  Notary  Public  in  and  for  Shasta  County,  Cal. 


Let  me  here  introduce  a  line  of  facts  stranger  than  anything  imagined  in  all  these  pages.  I]  had  not 
intended  to  insert  these  verses  and  had  delivered  to  my  publishers  the  completed  collection  without  them.  Against 
my  objection  that  the  lines  were  not  only  too  personal,  but  unequal,  it  was  urged  that  they  would  be  missed  by  my 
readers;  besides  their  preservation  was  due  to  niy  old  commander,  and  as  this  was  the  first  of  my  three  terrible 
Indian  campaigns,  and  I  had  served  only  as  private  instead  of  leader,  I  could  hardly  be  held  guilty  of  egotism. 
Deference  to  the  dead  made  me  consent  to  try  and  find  the  lines  at  once  in  some  library.  On  my  way  I  met  a  man 
whom  I  knew  but  slightly  as  U.  S.  Marshal  under  President  Hayes.  My  weary  eyes  were  unequal  to  the  task  before 
me,  and  I  asked  him  to  go  with  me.  We  found  the  magazine  and  he  kindly  offered  to  copy  the  lines  and  send 
them  to  me.  This  he  did;  and  now  let  his  letter  tell  the  rest. 

"  OAKLAND,  Dec.  20,  1896. 

"Joaquin,  my  dear  fellow,  I  enclose  herewith  the  copies  you  expressed  a  wish  for.  I  think  they  are  exact.  I 
was  especially  careful  in  making  the  affidavit  of  Old  Gib;  so  where  he  differs  with  Webster  orthographically,  I 
follow  Gib. 

"Now  my  boy.  I've  a  little  story.  I'll  be  considerate  and  make  it  brief.  In  the  early  part  of  the  summer  of 
1855,  I  was  one  of  a  company  of  about  twenty  that  left  Auburn,  Placer  Co.,  on  a  prospecting  expedition,  intending, 
unless  we  found  satisfactory  prospects  nearer,  to  go  to  the  Trinity.  We  crossed  the  Yuba  and  Feather,  camping  a 
few  days  on  Nelson  Creek,  then  traveling  in  a  northwesterly  direction,  we  reached  the  headwaters  of  the  Sacra 
mento,  where  we  found  a  party  of  white  men  and  Indians  who,  a  day  or  two  previous  to  our  meeting  them,  had 
had  a  desperate  fight  with  Indians.  They  told  us  they  had  lost  several  men,  killed  and  wounded,  but  had  nearly 


220 


LATER    POEMS. 


Up,    up,    straight    up   where   thunders 

grow 

And  growl  in  Castle  Rocks, 
Straight  up  till  Shasta  gleamed  in  snow, 
Aiid  shot  red  battle  shocks; 
Till  clouds  lay  shepherded  below, 
A  thousand  ghostly  flocks. 

Yet  up  and  up  Old  Gibson  led, 
No  looking  backward  theii; 
His  bare  feet  bled;  the  rocks  were  red 
From  torn,  bare-footed  men. 
Yet  up,  up,  up,  till  well  nigh  dead — 
The  Modoc  in  his  den! 

Then    cried    the    red    chief    from    his 

height, 

"Now,  white  man,  what  would  you  ? 
Behold  my  hundreds  for  the  fight, 
But  yours  so  faint  and  few; 
We  are  as  rain,  as  hail  at  night 
But  you,  you  are  as  dew. 

"White  man,  go  back;  I  beg  go  back, 
I  will  not  fight  so  few; 
Yet  if  I  hear  one  rifle  crack, 
Be  that  the  doom  of  you! 
Back!    down,    I    say,    back   down    your 

track, 
Back,  down!     What  else  to  do?" 

"  What  else  to  do?    Avenge  or  die! 
Brave  men  have  died  before; 
And  you  shall  fight,  or  you  shall  fly. 


You  find  no  women  more, 

No  babes  to  butcher  now;  for  I 

Shall  storm  your  Castle's  door  !  " 

Then  bang !  whiz  bang  !  whiz  bang  and 

ping! 

Six  thousand  feet  below, 
Sweet  Sacramento  ceased  to  sing, 
But  wept  and  wept,  for  oh! 
These  arrows  sting  as  adders  sting, 
And  they  kept  stinging  so. 

Then  one  man  cried:  "  Brave  men  have 

died, 

And  we  can  die  as  they; 
Bat  ah!  my  babe,  my  one  year's  bride! 
And  they  so  far  away. 
Brave  Captain  lead  us  back— aside, 
Must  all  here  die  to-day?  " 

His  face,  his  hands,  his  body  bled: 
Yea,  no  man  there  that  day — 
No  white  man  there  but  turned  to  red, 
In  that  fierce  fatal  fray; 
But  Gib  with  set  teeth  only  said: 
"  No;  we  came  here  to  stay!  " 

They   stayed   and   stayed,  and  Modocs 

stayed, 

But  when  the  night  came  on, 
No  white  man  there  was  now  afraid, 
The  last  Modoc  had  gone; 
His  ghost  in  Castle  Bocks  was  laid 
Till  everlasting  dawn. 


exterminated  the  Indians.    I  saw  one  of  their  men,  a  boy  in  appearance,  who  had,  as  I  understood,  received  two 
arrow  wounds  in  the  face  and  neck.    He  was  in  great  pain,  and  no  one  believed  he  could  recover. 

"Twelve  years  later  I,  then  Sheriff  of  Placer  Co.,  had  occasion  to  go  to  Shasta  on  official  business.  W.  E. 
Hopping  was  then  Sheriff  of  Shasta  Co.  In  the  course  of  conversation  with  him,  I  spoke  of  the  incident  narrated 
above.  He  interrupted  me,  and  said:  'The  Captain  of  the  volunteers  at  the  battle  is  in  town.'  He  found  him, 
and  introduced  me  to  the  man  who  was  doubtless  Old  Gib,  though  his  name  has  gone  from  my  memory.  I  asked 
about  the  young  fellow  who  was  so  desperately  wounded.  '  Oh,  he  pulled  through  all  right,  the  game  little  CUSP/ 
said  he,  '  he's  up  in  Oregon,  I  believe.'  I  don 't  think  he  mentioned  his  name,  but  in  copying  the  affidavit  of  Old 
Gib,  it  dawned  upon  me  who  that  '  game  little  cuss '  was.  Yours, 

A.  W.  POOLE." 


Up,  up,  straight  up  inhere  thunders  grow 
And  growl  in  Castle  Rocks, 
Straight  up  till  Shasta  gleamed  in  snow, 
And  shot  red  battle  shocks; 
Till  clouds  lay  shepherded  below, 
A  thousand  ghostly  flocks. 


POEMS. 


Hia  bare  feet  bled;  the  rocks  were  red 
From  torn,  bare-footed  men. 
Yet  up,  up,  up,  till  well  nigh  dead- 
The  Modoc  in  his  den! 

Then   cried   the   red    chief   torn 

height, 

"Kow,  white  man,  what 
Behold  my  hundreds  for  the  6 
But  yours  so  fa 


We  area* 
But  you, 


Then  bang !  whiz  bang 
pii 

ad  feet  below, 

Sweet  Sacramento  ceased  to  si 
But  wept  and  wept,  for  oh! 
These  arrows  sting  as  adders  - 
And  they  kept  stin 

Then  one  man  cried:  "  Bra\ 
died, 
\ve  can  die  as  they; 

i be,  ray  one  ye 
And  they  so  faraway. 
Brave  Captain  lead  us  bar) 
.11  here  die  to 


"Whit* 
I  will  not  '. 
Yet  if  I  hear  o 
Be  that  the  do< 
Back!    down,    I    wy,    *•« 

track, 
Back,  down'/   What  else  to  ft 

"  What  else  to  do?    Aveng 
Brave  men  have  died  b- 


»  there  was  now 

.-  Rocks  wa 
.vn. 


1*^ 

an  Uteri,  then 
n  Sheriff  of  Sha 
ruvt*A  me,  and  said.  'The 
.m  who  wa»  dru 


•ugh  hi»  n»m« 


LATER    POEMS. 


221 


DON'T    STOP    AT   THE     STATION 
DESPAIR. 

We  must  trust  the    Conductor,    most 

surely; 

Why,  millions  of  millions  before 
Have  made  this  same  journey  securely 
And  come  to  that  ultimate  shore. 
And  we,  we  will  reach  it  in  season; 
And  ah,  what  a  welcome  is  there! 
Keflect  then,  how  out  of  all  reason 
To  stop  at  the  Station  Despair. 

Ay,  midnights  and  many  a  potion 
Of  bitter  black  water  have  we 
As  we  journey  from  ocean  to  ocean — 
From  sea  unto  ultimate  sea — 
To  that  deep  sea  of  seas,  and  all  silence 
Of  passion,  concern  and  of  care — 
That  vast  sea  of  Eden-set  Islands — 
Don't  stop  at  the  Station  Despair! 

Go  forward,  whatever  may  follow, 
Go  forward,  friend-led,  or  alone; 
Ah  me,  to  leap  off  in  some  hollow 
Or  fen,  in  the  night  and  unknown — 
Leap  off  like  a  thief;  try  to  hide  you 
From  angels,  all  waiting  you  there! 
Go  forward;  whatever  betide  you 
Don't  stop  at  the  Station  Despair! 


THE  FORTUNATE  ISLES. 

You  sail  and  you  seek  for  the  Fortunate 

Isles, 
The  old  Greek  Isles  of  the  yellow  bird's 

song? 
Then  steer  straight  on  through  the  watery 

miles, 
Straight  on,  straight  on  and  you   can't  go 

wrong. 

Nay  not  to  the  left,  nay  not  to  the  right, 
But  on,  straight  on,  and  the  Isles  are  in 

sight, 


The   Fortunate    Isles   where    the    yellow 

birds  sing 
And  life  lies  girt  with  a  golden  ring. 

These  Fortunate  Isles   they  are  not  so 

far, 
They   lie    within    reach   of    the   lowliest 

door; 
You  can  see  them  gleam  by  the  twilight 

star; 
You  can  hear  them  sing  by  the   moon's 

white  shore — 
Nay,    never    look    back!     Those    leveled 

grave  stones 
They  were  landing  steps;  they  were  steps 

iinto  thrones 

Of    glory  for  souls  that  have   sailed   be 
fore, 
And  have  set  white  feet  on  the  fortunate 

shore. 

And  what  are  the  names  of  the  Fortu 
nate  Isles  ? 

Why,  Duty  and  Love  aud  a  large  content. 

Lo!  these  are  the  Isles  of  the  watery 
miles, 

That  God  let  down  from  the  firmament. 

Lo!  Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  true  man's 
trust; 

Your  forehead  to  God  though  your  feet  in 
the  dust; 

Lo!  Duty,  and  Love,  and  a  sweet  babe's 
smiles, 

And  these,  O  friend,  are  the  Fortunate 
Isles. 


BACK  TO  THE  GOLDEN  GATE. 
Yea,  we  have  tracked  the  hemispheres, 
Have  touched  on  fairest  land  that  lies 
This  side  the  gates  of  Paradise, 
Have  ranged  the  universe  for  years; 
Have  read  the  book  of  Truth  right  on, 
From  title  leaf  to  colophon. 


222 


LATER    POEMS. 


DEAD    IN    THE    LONG,    STKONG 

GKASS.* 
Dead!    stark  dead  in  the  long,  strong 

grass! 
But    he    died    with    his    sword    in    his 

hand. 

Who  says  it?  who  saw  it?  God  saw  it! 
And  I  knew  him!     St.  George!  he  would 

draw  it, 

Though  they  swooped  down  in  mass 
Till  they  darkened  the  land! 
Then  the  seventeen  wounds  in  his  breast! 
Ah!  these  witness  best. 

Dead!   stark  dead   in   the   long,  strong 

grass! 
Dead!  and  alone  in  the  great  dark  land! 


O  mother!  not  Empress  now,  mother! 
A  nobler  name,  too,  than  all  other, 
The  laurel  leaf  fades  from  thy  hand! 
O  mother  that  waiteth,  a  mass! 
Masses  and  chants  must  be  said, 
And  cypress,  instead. 


GARFIELD.  t 

"  Bear  me  out  of  the  battle,  for  lo,  I  am 
sorely  wounded." 

From  out  the  vast,  wide-bosomed  West, 
Where  gnarled  old  maples  make  array, 
Deep  scarred  from  Rednieii  gone  to  rest, 
Where  unnamed  heroes  hew  the  way 
For  worlds  to  follow  in  their  quest, 


*  Born  to  the  saddle  and  bred  by  a  chain  of  events  to  ride  with  the  wind  until  I  met  the  stolid  riders  of  Eng 
land,  I  can  now  see  how  it  was  that  Anthony  Trollope,  Lord  Houghton  and  others  of  the  saddle  and  "meet "  gave 
me  ready  place  in  their  midst.  Not  that  the  English  were  less  daring;  but  they  were  less  fortunate;  may  I  say  less 
experienced.  I  recall  the  fact  that  I  once  found  Lord  Houghton's  brother,  Lord  Crewe,  and  his  son  also,  under 
the  hands  of  the  surgeon  in  New  York— one  with  a  broken  thigh,  and  the  other  with  a  few  broken  ribs.  But  in  all 
our  hard  riding  I  never  had  a  scratch. 

One  morning  Trollope  hinted  that  my  immunity  was  due  to  my  big  Spanish  saddle,  which  I  had  brought  from 
Mexico  City.  I  threw  my  saddle  on  the  grass  and  rode  without  so  much  as  a  blanket.  And  I  rode  neck  to  neck; 
and  then  left  them  all  behind  and  nearly  everyone  unhorsed. 

Prince  Napoleon  was  of  the  party  that  morning;  and  as  the  gentlemen  pulled  themselves  together  on  the 
return  he  kept  by  my  side,  and  finally  proposed  a  tour  through  Notts  and  Sherwood  Forest  on  horseback.  And  so 
it  fell  out  that  we  rode  together  much. 

But  he  had  already  been  persistently  trained  in  the  slow  military  methods,  and  it  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to 
teach  him  to  cling  to  his  horse  aud  climb  into  the  saddle  as  he  ran,  after  the  fashion  of  Indians  and  vaqueros. 
He  admired  it  greatly,  but  seemed  to  think  it  unbecoming  a  soldier. 

It  was  at  the  Literary  Fund  dinner,  where  Stanley  and  Prince  Napoleon  stood  together  when  they  made 
their  speeches,  that  I  saw  this  brave  and  brilliant  young  man  for  the  last  time.  He  was  about  to  set  out  for 
Africa  with  the  English  troops  to  take  part  In  the  Zulu  war. 

He  seemed  very  serious.  When  about  to  separate  he  took  my  hand,  and,  looking  me  all  the  time  in  the  face, 
placed  a  large  diamond  on  my  finger,  saying  something  about  its  being  from  the  laud  to  which  he  was  going.  I 
refused  to  take  it,  for  I  had  heard  that  the  Emperor  died  poor.  But  as  he  begged  me  to  keep  it,  at  least  till  he 
should  come  back,  it  has  hardly  left  my  hand  since  he  placed  it  there. 

Piteous  that  this  heir  to  the  throne  of  France  should  die  alone  in  the  yellow  grass  at  the  hand  of  savages  iu 
that  same  land  where  the  great  Emperor  had  said,  "Soldiers,  from  yonder  pyramids  twenty  centuries  behold  your 
deeds." 

t  Walt  Whitman  chanced  to  be  in  Boston  when  I  last  visited  Mr.  Longfellow,  aud  I  was  delighted  to  hear  the 
poet  at  his  table  in  the  midst  of  his  perfect  family  speak  of  him  most  kindly;  for  at  this  time"  the  press  and  all 
small  people  were  abusing  Whitman  terribly.  Soon  after  he  looked  me  up  at  my  hotel  In  Boston,  and  we  two 
called  on  the  good,  gray  poet  together.  I  mention  this  merely  to  italicize  the  suggestion  that  Longfellow's  was  a 
large  nature. 

Many  others,  I  know,  stood  nearer  him,  so  much  nearer  and  dearer,  and  maybe  I  ought  not  to  claim  the  right 
to  say  much  of  a  sacred  nature;  but  somehow  I  always  felt,  when  he  reached  out  his  right  hand  and  drew  me  to 


LATER    POEMS. 


223 


Where  pipes   the   quail,  where   squirrels 

play 
Through    tops    of    trees    with    nuts    for 

A  boy  stood  forth  clear-eyed  and  tall, 
A  timid  boy,  a  bashful  boy, 
Yet  comely  as  a  son  of  Saul — 
A  boy  all  friendless,  all  unknown, 
Yet  heir  apparent  to  a  throne; 


A  throne  the  proudest  yet  on  earth 
For  him  who  bears  him  noblest,  best, 
And  this  he  won  by  simple  worth, 
That  boy  from  out  the  wooded  West. 
And  now  to  fall!    Pale-browed  and  prone 
He  lies  in  everlasting  rest. 
The  nations  clasp  the  cold,  dead  hand; 
The  nations  sob  aloud  at  this; 


The  only  dry  eyes  in  the  land 
Now  at  the  last  we  know  are  his; 
While  she  who  sends  a  wreath  won 
More  conquest  than  her  hosts  had  done. 


Brave  heart,  farewell.    The  wheel  has 

run 

Full  circle,  and  behold  a  grave 
Beneath  thy  loved  old  trees  is  done. 
The  druid  oaks  lift  up  and  wave 
A  solemn  beckon  back.     The  brave 
Old  maples  welcome,  every  one. 
Receive  him,  earth.     In  center  land, 
As  in  the  center  of  each  heart, 
As  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 
The  coffin  sinks.     And  we  depart 
Each  on  his  way,  as  God  deems  best 
To  do,  and  so  deserve  to  rest. 


him,  and  looked  me  fairly  and  silently  in  the  face  with  his  earnest  seer  eyes,  that  he  knew  me,  did  not  dislike  me, 
and  that  he  knew,  soul  to  soul,  we  each  sought  the  good  and  the  beautiful  and  true,  each  after  his  fashion,  and  as 
best  he  knew. 

He  had  a  pretty  way  of  always  getting  out  of  the  house-that  beautiful  house  of  his,  where  Washington  had 
dwelt— into  the  woods.  He  possessed  a  wonderful  lot  of  books,  but  he  knew  the  birds,  the  crickets,  the  flowers, 
woods  and  grasses  were  more  in  my  way,  and  with  rare  delicacy  he  never  talked  on  books  at  all,  but  led  out  at 
once,  whenever  possible,  to  our  mutual  friends  in  the  rear  of  the  old  Headquarters  of  Washington. 

It  was  on  this  occasion  that  a  pall  of  black  suddenly  fell  upon  the  Republic.    Garfield  lay  dead  at  Elberon  ! 

A  publisher  solicited  from  each  of  the  severai  authors  then  in  and  about  Boston  some  tribute  of  sorrow  for 
the  dead.  The  generous  sum  of  $100  was  checked  as  an  earnest.  I  remember  how  John  Boyle  O'Reilly  and  I 
went  to  big-hearted  Walt  Whitman  and  wrestled  with  him  in  a  vain  effort  to  make  him  earn  and  accept  his  $100. 

"Yes,  I'm  sorry  as  the  sorriest;  sympathize  with  the  great  broken  heart  of  the  world  over  this  dead  sov 
ereign  citizen.  But  I've  nothing  to  say." 

And  so,  persuade  as  we  might,  even  till  past  midnight,  Walt  Whitman  would  not  touch  the  money  or  try  to 
write  a  line.  He  was  poor;  but  bear  it  forever  in  testimony  that  he  was  honest,  and  would  not  promise  to  sell  that 
which  he  felt  that  God  had  not  at  that  moment  given  him  to  sell.  And  hereafter,  whenever  any  of  you  are  dis 
posed  to  speak  or  even  think  unkindly  of  Walt  Whitman,  remember  this  refusal  of  his  to  touch  a  whole  heap  of 
money  when  he  might  have  had  it  for  ten  lines,  and  maybe  less  than  ten  minutes'  employment.  I  love  him  for  it. 
There  is  not  a  butcher,  nor  a  baker,  nor  a  merchant,  nor  a  banker  in  America,  perhaps,  who  would  have  been, 
under  the  circumstances,  so  stubbornly,  savagely  honest  with  the  world  and  himself. 

Early  next  morning  I  went  to  Mr.  Longfellow  in  great  haste  and  read  my  lines.  Kindly  he  listened  as  I 
read,  and  then  carefully  looked  them  all  over  and  made  some  important  improvements.  He  had  also  partly  writ 
ten,  and  read  me,  his  poem  on  the  sad  theme.  But  it  was  too  stately  and  fine  for  company  with  our  less  mature 
work,  and  at  the  last  moment  it  was  withheld  on  the  plea  that  it  was  still  incomplete.  It  soon  after  appeared  in 
the  New  York  Independent.  As  I  was  hastening  away  with  my  manuscript  for  the  press,  he  said  as  he  came  with 
me  down  to  the  gate,  that  the  Queen  of  England  had  done  more  to  conquer  America  by  sending  the  wreath  for 
the  funeral  of  the  dead  President  than  all  the  Georges  had  ever  done  with  all  their  troops  and  cannon  And  he 
said  it  in  such  a  poetical  way  that  I  thought  it  an  unanished  couplet  of  his  poem.  I  never  saw  him  any  more. 


224 


LATER    POEMS. 


TO  THE  CALIFORNIA  PIONEEES. 

BEAD  IN  SAN  FRANCISCO,    1894. 

How  swift  this  sand,  gold-laden,  runs! 
How   slow   these    feet,    once    swift    and 

firm! 

Ye  came  as  romping,  rosy  sons, 
Come  jocund  tip  at  College  term; 
Ye  came  so  jolly,  stormy,  strong, 
Ye  drown'd  the  roll-call  with  your  song. 
But  now  ye  lean  a  list'ning  ear 
And — "Adsum!  Adsum!  I  am  here!" 

My  brave  world-bearers  of  a  world 
That  tops  the  keystone,  star  of  States, 
All  hail!     Your  battle  flags  are  furled 
In  fruitful  peace.     The  golden  gates 
Are  won.     The  jasper  walls  be  yours. 
Your    sun    sinks    down    yon    soundless 

shores. 

Night  falls.     But  lo!  your  lifted  eyes 
Greet  gold  outcroppings  in  the  skies. 

Companioned  with  Sierrr.'s  peaks 
Our  storm-born  eagle  shrieks  his  scorn 
Of  doubt  or  death,  and  upward  seeks 
Throurh  unseen  worlds  the  coming  morn. 
Or  storm,  or  calm,  or  near,  or  far, 
His  eye  fixed  on  the  morning  star, 
He  knows,  as  God  knows,  there  is  dawn; 
And  so  keeps  on,  and  on,  and  on! 

So  ye,  brave  men  of  bravest  days, 
Fought  on  and  on  with  battered  shield, 
Up  bastion,  rampart,  till  the  rays 
Of  full  morn  met  ye  on  the  field. 
Ye  knew  not  doubt;  ye  only  knew 
To  do  and  dare,  and  dare  and  do! 
Ye  knew  that  time,  that  God's  first-born, 
Would  turn  the  darkest  night  to  morn. 

Ye  gave  your  glorious  years  of  youth 
And  lived  as  heroes  live— and  die. 
Ye  loved  the  truth,  ye  lived  the  truth; 
Ye  knew  that  cowards  only  lie. 
Then  heed  not  now  one  serpent's  hiss, 


Or  trait'rous,  trading,  Judas  kiss. 
Let  slander  wallow  in  his  slime; 
Still  leave  the  truth  to  God  and  time. 

Worn  victors,  few  and  true,  such  clouds 
As  track  God's  trailing  garment's  hem 
Where  Shasta  keeps  shall  be  your  shrouds, 
And  ye  shall  pass  the  stars  in  them. 
Your  tombs  shall  be  while  time  endures, 
Such  hearts  as  only  truth  secures; 
Your  everlasting  monuments 
Sierra's  snow-topt  battle  tents. 


JAVA. 

"  And  darkness  was  upon  the  face  of  the 
deep;  and  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon 
the  waters." 

The  oceans  roar;  the  mountains  reel; 
The  world  stands  still,  with  bated  breath. 
Now  burst  of  flame!  and  woe  and  weal 
All  drowned  in  darkness  aud  in  death. 
Wild  beasts  in  herds,  strange,  beauteous 

birds — 
God's  rainbow  birds, — gone  in  a  breath! 

0  God!  is  earth,  then,  incomplete— 
The  six  days'  labor  not  yet  done — 
That  she  must  melt  beneath  Thy  feet 
And  her  fair  face  forget  the  sun  ? 
Must  isles  go  down,  and  cities  drown, 
And  good  and  evil  be  as  one? 

The  creat,  warm  heart  of  Mother  Earth 
Is  broken  o'er  her  Javaii  Isles. 
Lo!  ashes  strew  her  ruined  hearth 
Along  a  thousand  watery  miles. 
I  hear  her  groan,  I  hear  her  moan, 
All  day  above  her  drowning  isles. 

Tall  ships  are  sailing  silently 
Above  her  buried  isles  to-day. 
In  marble  halls  beneath  the  sea 


Your  everlasting  monuments 
Sierra's  snoiv-tupt  battle  tents. 


224 


*  lander 
leave  the  truth  to  God  and  time. 

orn  victors,  few  and  true,  such  clouds 

trailing  garment's  hem 
ta  keeps  shall  be  your  shrouds, 

..?s  the  stars  in  them, 
shall  be  while  time  endures, 
as  only  truth  secures; 
ting  monuments 
w-topt  battle  tents. 


JAVA. 

if ss  was  upon  the  face  of  the 
•  rit  of  God  moved  upon 

Tt    " 


Compar,  th. 

Our  storm 
Of  doubt  or  de 
ThrouLh  unseen  work! 
Or  storm,  or  cahu,  or 
His  eye  fixed  on  the  in  on. 
He  knows,  as  God  known 
And  so  keeps  on   and  on   at 

.atliThy  feet 

*  v  the  sun? 

•  v.  >wn, 

<ae? 
Up  bastion,  rampai 

Of  full  morn  met  ye  on  tL 

Yo -k  ;iither  Earth 

To  do  and  dar«,  and  dare 

Ye  knew  that  time,  that  (  :irth 

Would  turn  the  darkest  '^ 

.•rr  moan, 

!• 

Ye  gave  y 

And  lived  as  heroes  live 

Ye  loved  the  truth,  ye  li  aro  p 

Ye  knew  that  cowar 

heed  not  u-  "ea 


LATER    POEMS. 


225 


The  sea-god's  children  shout  and  play; 
They  mock  and  shout  in  merry  rout 
Where  mortals  dwelt  but  yesterday. 


MOTHER  EGYPT. 

Dark-browed,   she  broods  with  weary 

lids 

Beside  her  Sphynx  and  Pyramids, 
With  low  and  never-lifted  head. 
If  she  be  dead,  respect  the  dead; 
If  she  be  weeping,  let  her  weep; 
If  she  be  sleeping,  let  her  sleep; 
For  lo,  this  woman  named  the  stars! 
She  suckled  at  her  tawny  dugs 
Your  Moses  while  you  reeked  in  wars 
And  prowled  your  woods,  nude,  painted 
thugs. 

Then  back,    brave  England;    back    in 

peace 

To  Christian  isles  of  fat  increase! 
Go  back!    Else  bid  your  high  priests  mold 
Their  meek  bronze  Christs  to  cannon  bold; 
Take  down   their  cross   from  proud  St. 

Paul's 

And  coin  it  into  cannon-balls! 
You  tent  not  far  from  Nazareth. 
Your  camps  trench  where   his  child-feet 

strayed. 

If  Christ  had  seen  this  work  of  death! 
If  Christ  had  seen  these  ships  invade! 

I  think  the  patient  Christ  had  said, 
"Go  back,   brave  men!    Take  up    your 

dead; 

Draw  down  your  great  ships  to  the  seasj 
Repass  the  gates  of  Hercules. 
Go  back  to  wife  with  babe  at  breast, 
And  leave  lorn  Egypt  to  her  rest." 
Or  is  Christ  dead,  as  Egypt  is  ? 
Ah,  England,  hear  me  yet  again; 

There's  something  grimly  wrong  in  this 

So  like  some  gray,  sad  woman  slain. 


What  would  you  have  your  mother  do? 
Hath  she  not  done  enough  for  you  ? 
Go  back!     And  when  you  learn  to  read, 
Come  read  this  obelisk.     Her  deed 
Like  yonder  awful  forehead  is 
Disdainful  silence.     Like  to  this 
What  lessons  have  you  writ  in  stone 
To  passing  nations  that  shall  stand  ? 
Why,  years  as  hers  will  leave  you  lone 
And  level  as  yon  yellow  sand. 

Saint  George?     Your  lions?    Whence 

are  they? 

From  awful,  silent  Africa. 
This  Egypt  is  the  lion's  lair; 
Beware,  brave  Albion,  beware! 
I  feel  the  very  Nile  should  rise 
To  drive  you  from  this  sacrifice. 
And  if  the  seven  plagues  should  come? 
The  red  seas  swallow  sword  and  steed  ? 
Lo!  Christian  lands  stand  mute  and  dumb 
To  see  thy  more  than  Moslem  deed. 


THE  PASSING  OF  TENNYSON. 

My  kingly  kinsmen,  kings  of  thought, 
I  hear  your  gathered  symphonies, 

Such  nights  as  when  the  world  is  not, 

And  great  stars  chorus  through  my  trees. 

We  knew  it,  as  God's  prophets  knew; 
We  knew  it,  as  mute  red  men  know, 
When     Mars     leapt     searching    heaven 

through 

With  flaming  torch,  that  he  must  go. 
Then  Browning,  he  who  knew  the  stars, 
Stood  forth  and  faced  insatiate  Mars. 

Then   up    from    Cambridge   rose    and 

turned 

Sweet  Lowell  from  his  Druid  trees — 
Turned  where  the  great  star  blazed  and 

burned, 
As  if  his  own  soul  might  appease. 


226 


LATER    POEMS. 


Yet  ou  and  on  through  all  the  stars 

Still  searched  and  searched  insatiate  Mars. 


Then   stanch   Walt  Whitman   saw  and 

knew; 

Forgetful  of  his  "Leaves  of  Grass," 
He  heard   his   "Drum   Taps,"  and  God 

drew 
His     great     soul     through    the    shining 


Made    light,    made  bright  by  burnished 

stars; 
Made  scintillant  from  flaming  Mars. 


Then  soft-voiced  Whittier  was  heard 
To  cease;  was  heard  to  sing  no  more. 
As  you  have  heard  some  sweetest  bird 
The  more  because  its  song  is  o'er. 
Yet  brighter  up  the  street  of  stars 
Still  blazed    and    burned  and  beckoned 
Mars: 


And     then    the    king   came;    king    of 

thought, 

King  David  with  his  harp  and  crown .... 
How  wisely  well  the  gods  had  wrought 
That     these    had     gone    and    sat    them 

down 

To  wait  and  welcome  mid  the  stars 
All  silent  in  the  light  of  Mars. 


All  silent ....  So,  he  lies  in  state .... 
Our  redwoods  drip  and  drip  with  rain .... 
Against  our  rock-locked  Golden  Gate 
We  hear  the  great,  sad,  sobbing  main. 
But  silent  all ...  .He  passed  the  stars 
That    year    the  whole   world    turned  to 
Mars. 


IN  CLASSIC  SHADES.* 

ALONE  and  sad  I  sat  me  down 
To  rest  on  Kousseau's  narrow  isle 
Below  Geneva.     Mile  on  mile, 
And  set  with  many  a  shining  town, 
Tow'rd  Dent  du  Midi  danced  the  wave 
Beneath  the  moon.     Winds  went  and  came 
And  fanned  the  stars  into  a  flame. 
I  heard  the  far  lake,  dark  and  deep, 
Rise  up  and  talk  as  in  its  sleep  ; 
I  heard  the  laughing  waters  lave 
And  lap  against  the  further  shore, 
An  idle  oar,  and  nothing  more 
Save  that  the  isle  had  voice,  and  save 
That  'round  about  its  base  of  stone 
There    plashed    and    flashed    the   foamy 

Rhone. 

A  stately  man,  as  black  as  tan, 
Kept  up  a  stern  and  broken  round 
Among  the  strangers  on  the  ground. 
I  named  that  awful  African 
A  second  Hannibal. 

I  gat 

My  elbows  on  the  table  ;   sat 
With  chin  in  upturned  palm  to  scan 
His  face,  and  contemplate  the  scene. 
The  moon  rode  by  a  crowned  queen. 
I  was  alone.     Lo!  not  a  man 
To  speak  my  mother  tongue.     Ah  me! 
How  more  than  all  alone  can  be 
A  man  in  crowds!     Across  the  isle 
My  Hannibal  strode  on.     The  while 
Diminished  Rousseau  sat  his  throne 
•Of  books,  unnoticed  and  unknown. 

This  strange,    strong   man,    with    face 

austere, 

At  last  drew  near.     He  bowed;   he  spake 
In  unknown  tongues.     I  could  but  shake 


*The  germ  of  song  is,  to  my  mind,  a  solemn  gift.  The  prophet  and  the  seer  should  rise  above  the  levities  of  this 
life.  And  so  it  is  that  I  make  humble  apology  for  now  gathering  up  from  recitation  books  these  next  half  dozen 
pieces.  The  only  excuse  for  doing  it  is  their  refusal  to  die;  even  under  the  mutilations  of  the  compilers  of  "choice 
selections." 


LATER    POEMS. 


227 


My  head.     Then  half  achill  with  fear, 
Arose,  and  sought  another  place. 
Again  I  mused.     The  kings  of  thought 
Came  by,  and  on  that  storied  spot 
I  lifted  up  a  tearful  face. 
The  star-set  Alps  they  sang  a  tune 
Unheard  by  any  soul  save  mine. 
Mont  Blanc,  as  lone  and  as  divine 
And  white,  seemed  mated  to  the  moon. 
The  past   was   mine ;   strong-voiced   and 

vast — 

Stern  Calvin,  strange  Voltaire,  and  Tell, 
And  two  whose  names  are  known  too  well 
To  name,  in  grand  procession  passed. 

And  yet  again  came  Hannibal; 
King-like  he  came,  and  drawing  near, 
I  saw  his  brow  was  now  severe 
And  resolute. 

In  tongue  unknown 
Again  he  spake.     I  was  alone, 
Was  all  unarmed,  was  worn  and  sad  ; 
But  now,  at  last,  my  spirit  had 
Its  old  assertion. 

I  arose, 

As  startled  from  a  dull  repose  ; 
With  gathered  strength  I  raised  a  hand 
And  cried,   "  I  do  not  understand.1 


His  black  face  brightened  as  I  spake  ; 
He  bowed  ;   he  wagged  his  woolly  head  ; 
He  showed  his  shining  teeth,  and  said, 
"Sah,  if  you  please,  dose  tables  heah 
Am  consecrate  to  lager  beer  ; 
And,  sah,  what  will  you  have  to  take?" 


Not  that  I  loved  that  colored  cuss — 
Nay!  he  had  awed  me  all  too  much — 
But  I  sprang  forth,  and  with  a  clutch 
I  grasped  his  hand,  and  holding  thus, 
Cried,  "Bring  my  country's  drink  for  two!" 


For  oh!  that  speech  of  Saxon  sound 
To  me  was  as  a  fountain  found 
In  wastes,  and  thrilled  me  through  and 
through. 


On  Rousseau's  isle,  in  Eousseau's  shade, 
Two  pink  and  spicy  drinks  were  made, 
In  classic  shades,  on  classic  ground, 
We  stirred  two  cocktails  round  and  round. 


THAT  GENTLE  MAN  FROM  BOSTON. 

AN    IDYL  OF   OREGON. 

Two  noble  brothers  loved  a  fair 
Young  lady,  rich  and  good  to  see; 
And  oh,  her  black  abundant  hair! 
And  oh,  her  wondrous  witchery! 
Her  father  kept  a  cattle  farm, 
These  brothers  kept  her  safe  from  harm: 

From  harm  of  cattle  on  the  hill; 
From  thick-necked  bulls  loud  bellowing 
The  livelong  morning,  long  and  shrill, 
And  lashing  sides  like  anything! 
From  roaring  bulls  that  tossed  the  sand 
And  pawed  the  lilies  of  the  land. 

There  came  a  third  young  man.     He 

came 

From  far  and  famous  Boston  town. 
He  was  not  handsome,  was  not  "  game," 
But  he  could  "cook  a  goose  "  as  brown 
As  any  man  that  set  foot  on 
The  mist  kissed  shores  of  Oregon. 

This  Boston  man  he  taught  the  school, 
Taught  gentleness  and  love  alway, 
Said  love  and  kindness,  as  a  rule, 
Would  ultimately  "make  it  pay." 
He  was  so  gentle,  kind,  that  he 
Could  make  a  noun  and  verb  agree. 


228 


LATER    POEMS. 


So  when  one  day  these  brothers  grew 
All  jealous  and  did  strip  to  fight, 
He  gently  stood  between  the  two 
And  meekly  told  them  'twas  not  right. 
"  I  have  a  higher,  better  plan," 
Outspake  this  gentle  Boston  man. 

"  My  plan  is  this:  Forget  this  fray 
About  that  lily  hand  of  hers; 
Go  take  your  guns  and  hunt  all  day 
High  up  yon  lofty  hill  of  firs, 
And  while  you  hunt,  my  ruffled  doves, 
Why,  I  will  learn  which  one  she  loves." 

The  brothers  sat  the  windy  hill, 
Their  hair  shone  yellow,  like  spun  gold, 
Their  rifles  crossed  their  laps,  but  still 
They    sat  and  sighed  and    shook    with 

cold. 

Their  hearts  lay  bleeding  far  below; 
Above  them  gleamed  white  peaks  of  snow. 

Their  hounds  lay  crouching,  slim  and 

neat, 

A  spotted  circle  in  the  grass. 
The  valley  lay  beneath  their  feet; 
They  heard  the  wide- winged  eagles  pass. 
Two  eagles  cleft  the  clouds  above; 
Yet  what  could  they  but  sigh  and  love? 

"  If  I  could  die,"  the  elder  sighed, 
"  My  dear  young  brother  here  might  wed." 
"Oh,  would  to  heaven  I  had  died!  " 
The  younger  sighed  with  bended  head. 
Then  each  looked  each  full  in  the  face 
And  each  sprang  up  and  stood  in  place. 


"If  I  could  die" — the  elder  spake, — 
"  Die  by  your  hand,  the  world  would  say 
'Twas  accident—;  and  for  her  sake, 
Dear  brother,  be  it  so,  I  pray." 
"Not  that!  "  the  younger  nobly  said; 
Then  tossed  his  gun  and  turned  his  head. 


And  fifty  paces  back  he  paced! 
And  as  he  paced  he  drew  the  ball; 
Then  sudden   stopped  and  wheeled  and 

faced 

His  brother  to  the  death  and  fall! 
Two  shots  rang  wild  upon  the  air! 
But  lo!  the  two  stood  harmless  there! 


Two  eagles  poised  high  in  the  air; 
Far,  far  below  the  bellowing 
Of  bullocks  ceased,  and  everywhere 
Vast  silence  sat  all  questioning. 
The  spotted  hounds  ran  circling  round, 
Their  red,  wet  noses  to  the  ground. 

And  now  each  brother  came  to  know 
That  each  had  drawn  the  deadly  ball; 
And  for  that  fair  girl  far  below 
Had  sought  in  vain  to  silent  fall. 
And  then  the  two  did  gladly  "  shake," 
And  thus  the  elder  bravely  spake: 

"Now  let  us  run  right  hastily 
And  tell  the  kind  schoolmaster  all! 
Yea!  yea!  and  if  she  choose  not  me, 
But  all  on  you  her  favors  fall, 
This  valiant  scene,  till  all  life  ends, 
Dear  brother,  binds  us  best  of  friends. 


The  hounds  sped  down,  a  spotted  line, 
The  bulls  in  tall  abundant  grass 
Shook  back  their  horns  from  bloom  and 

vine, 

And  trumpeted  to  see  them  pass — 
They  loved  so  good,  they  loved  so  true, 
These  brothers  scarce  knew  what  to  do. 


They  sought  the  kind  schoolmaster  out 
As  swift  as  sweeps  the  light  of  morn — 
They  could  but  love,  they  could  not  doubt 
This  man  so  gentle,  "in  a  horn," 
They  cried:  "  Now  whose  the  lily  hand — 
That  lady's  of  this  emer'ld  land  ?" 


LATER    POEMS. 


229 


They  bowed  before  that  big-nosed  man, 
That  long-nosed  man  from  Boston  townj 
They  talked  as  only  lovers  can, 
They  talked,  but  he  would  only  frown; 
And  still  they  talked  and  still  they  plead; 
It  was  as  pleading  with  the  dead. 

At  last  this  Boston  man  did  speak— 
"Her  father  has  a  thousand  ceows, 
An  hundred  bulls,  all  fat  and  sleek; 
He  also  had  this  ample  heouse." 
The  brothers'  eyes  stuck  out  thereat 
So  far  you  might  have  hung  your  hat. 


*'  I  liked  the  looks  of  this  big  heouse — 
My  lovely  boys,  won't  you  come  in  ? 
Her  father  had  a  thousand  ceows — 
He  also  had  a  heap  o'  tin. 
The  guirl?    Oh  yes,  the  guirl,  you 
The  guirl,  this  morning  married  me." 


WILLIAM  BROWN  OF  OREGON. 

They  called  him  Bill,  the  hired  man, 
But  she,  her  name  was  Mary  Jane, 
The  squire's  daughter;  and  to  reign 
The  belle  from  Ber-she-be  to  Dan 
Her  little  game.     How  lovers  rash 
Got  mittens  at  the  spelling  school! 
How  many  a  mute,  inglorious  fool 
Wrote   rhymes  and    sighed    and    dyed — 
mustache? 


This  hired  man  had  loved  her  long, 
Had  loved  her  best  and  first  and  last, 
Her  very  garments  as  she  passed 
For  him  had  symphony  and  song. 
So  when  one  day  with  flirt  and  frown 
She  called    him    "Bill,"    he  raised    his 

heart, 

He  caught  her  eye  and  faltering  said, 
"I  love  you;  and  my  name  is  Brown," 


She  fairly  waltzed  with  rage;  she  wept; 
You  would  have  thought  the  house  on  fire. 
She  told  her  sire,  the  portly  squire, 
Then  smelt  her  smelling-salts  and  slept. 
Poor  William  did  what  could  be  done; 
He  swung  a  pistol  on  each  hip, 
He  gathered  up  a  great  ox-whip 
And  drove  right  for  the  setting  sun. 

He  crossed  the  big  backbone  of  earth, 
He  saw  the  snowy  mountains  rolled 
Like  nasty  billows;  saw  the  gold 
Of  great  big  sunsets;  felt  the  birth 
Of  sudden  dawn  upon  the  plain; 
And  every  night  did  William  Brown 
Eat  pork  and  beans  and  then  lie  down 
And  dream  sweet  dreams  of  Mary  Jane. 

Her    lovers    passed.     Wolves    hunt  in 


They  sought  for  bigger  game;  somehow 
They  seemed  to  see  about  her  brow 
The  forky  sign  of  turkey  tracks. 
The  teter-board  of  life  goes  up, 
The  teter-board  of  life  goes  down, 
The  sweetest  face  must  learn  to  frown; 
The  biggest  dog  has  been  a  pup. 

O  maidens!  pluck  not  at  the  air; 
The  sweetest  flowers  I  have  found 
Grow  rather  close  unto  the  ground 
And  highest  places  are  most  bare. 
Why,  you  had  better  win  the  grace 
Of  one  poor  cussed  Af-ri-can 
Than  win  the  eyes  of  every  man 
In  love  alone  with  his  own  face. 


At  last  she  nursed  her  true  desire. 
She  sighed,  she  wept  for  William  Brown. 
She  watched  the  splendid  sun  go  down 
Like  some  great  sailing  ship  on  fire, 
Then  rose  and  checked  her  trunks  right 

on; 
And  in  the  cars  she  lunched  and  lunched, 


230 


LATER    POEMS. 


And  had  her  ticket  punched  and  punched, 
Until  she  came  to  Oregon. 

She  reached  the  limit  of  the  lines, 
She  wore  blue  specs  upon  her  nose, 
Wore  rather  short  and  manly  clothes, 
And  so  set  out  to  reach  the  mines. 
Her  right  hand  held  a  Testament, 
Her  pocket  held  a  parasol, 
And  thus  equipped  right  on  she  went, 
Went  water-proof  and  water-fall. 

She  saw  a  miner  gazing  down, 
Slow  stirring  something  with  a  spoon; 
"  O,  tell  me  true  and  tell  me  soon, 
What  has  become  of  William  Brown?  " 
He  looked  askance  beneath  her  specs, 
Then     stirred    his    cocktail    round    and 

round, 
Then  raised  his    head    and    sighed   pro- 

found, 
And  said,  "  He's  handed  in  his  checks." 

Then  care  fed  on  her  damaged  cheek, 
And  she  grew  faint,  did  Mary  Jane, 
And  smelt  her  smelling  salts  in  vain, 
Yet  wandered  on,  way-worn  and  weak. 
At  last  upon  a  hill  alone; 
She  came,  and  there  she  sat  her  down; 
For  on  that  hill  there  stood  a  stone, 
And,    lo!     that    stone     read,     "William 
Brown." 

"O  William  Brown!    O  William  Brown! 
And  here  you  rest  at  last,"  she  said, 
"  With  this  lone  stone  above  your  head, 
And  forty  miles  from  any  town! 
I  will  plant  cypress  trees,  I  will, 
And  I  will  build  a  fence  around, 
And  I  will  fertilize  the  ground 
With  tears  enough  to  turn  a  mill." 

She  went  and  got  a  hired  man. 
She  brought  him  forty  miles  from  town, 
And  in  the  tall  grass  squatted  down 


And  bade  him  build  as  she  should  plan. 
But  cruel  cowboys  with  their  bands 
They  saw,  and  hurriedly  they  ran 
And  told  a  bearded  cattle  man 
Somebody  builded  on  his  lands. 

He  took  his  rifle  from  the  rack, 
He  girt  himself  in  battle  pelt, 
He  stuck  two  pistols  in  his  belt, 
And  mounting  on  his  horse's  back, 
He  plunged  ahead.    But  when  they  shewed 
A  woman  fair,  about  his  eyes 
He  pulled  his  hat,  and  he  likewise 
Pulled  at  his    beard,    and    chewed    and 
chewed. 

At  last  he  gat  him  down  and  spake: 
"  O  lady,  dear,  what  do  you  here?  " 
"I  build  a  tomb  unto  my  dear, 
I  plant  sweet  flowers  for  his  sake." 
The  bearded  man  threw  his  two  hands 
Above  his  head,  then  brought  them  down 
And  cried,  "  O,  I  am  William  Brown, 
And  this  the  corner-stone  of  my  lands!  " 

The  preacher  rode  a  spotted  mare, 
He  galloped  forty  miles  or  more; 
He  swore  he  never  had  before 
Seen  bride  or  bridegroom  half  so  fair. 
And  all  the  Injins  they  came  down 
And  feasted  as  the  night  advanced, 
And  all  the  cowboys  drank  and  danced, 
And  cried:    Biglnjin!  William  Brown. 


HOKACE    GEEELEY'S  DRIVE. 

The  old  stage-drivers  of  the  brave  old 

days! 
The  old  stage-drivers  with  their  dash  and 

trust! 
These  old   stage-drivers    they  have  gone 

their  ways 
But  their  deeds  live  on,  though  their  bones 

are  dust; 


LATER    POEMS. 


231 


And  many  brave  tales  are  told  and  retold 
Of  these  daring  men  in  the  days  of  old: 

Of  honest  'Hank  Monk  and  his  Tally- 

Ho, 
When  he  took  good  Horace  in  his  stage  to 

climb 

The  high  Sierras  with  their  peaks  of  snow 
And    'cross  to  Nevada,  "and  come  in  on 

time;" 
But  the  canyon  below  was  so  deep — oh! 

so  deep — 
And  the  summit  above  was  so  steep — oh! 

so  steep! 


The  horses  were  foaming.     The  summit 

ahead 
Seemed  as  far  as  the  stars  on  a  still,  clear 

night. 
And  steeper  and  steeper  the  narrow  route 

led 

Till  up  to  the  peaks  of  perpetual  white; 
But  faithful  Hank  Monk,  with  his  face  to 

the  snow, 
Sat  silent  and  stern  on  his  Tally-Ho! 


Sat  steady  and  still,  sat  faithful  and 
true 

To  the  great,  good  man  in  his  charge  that 
day; 

Sat  vowing  the  man  and  the  mail  should 
"go  through 

On  time  "  though  he  bursted  both  brace 
and  stay; 

Sat  silently  vowing,  in  face  of  the  snow, 

He'd  "  get  in  on  time  "  with  his  Tally- 
Ho! 


But  the  way  was  so  steep  and  so  slow — 

oh!  so  slow! 
'T  was  silver  below,  and  the  bright  silver 

peak 
Was  silver  above  in  its  beauty  and  glow. 


An  eagle  swooped  by,  Hank  saw  its  hooked 
beak; 

When,  sudden  out-popping  a  head  snowy 
white — 

' '  Mr.  Monk,  I  must  lecture  in  Nevada  to 
night!" 

With  just  one  thought  that  the  mail 
must  go  through; 

With  just  one  word  to  the  great,  good 
man — 

But  weary — so  weary— the  creaking  stage 
drew 

As  only  a  weary  old  creaking  stage  can — 

When  again  shot  the  [head;  came  shriek 
ing  outright: 

"  Mr.  Monk,  I  MUST  lecture  in  Nevada  to 
night!"  % 


Just  then  came  the  summit!     And  the 

far  world  below, 
It  was  Hank  Monk's  world.     But  he  no 

word  spake; 
He  pushed  back  his  hat  to  that  fierce  peak 

of  snow! 
He  threw  out  his  foot  to  the  eagle  and 

break! 
He  threw  out  his  silk!     He  threw  out  his 

reins! 
And  the  great  wheels  reeled  as  if  reeling 

snow  skeins! 


The  eagle  was  lost  in  his  crag  up 
above ! 

The  horses  flew  swift  as  the  swift  light  of 
morn ! 

The  mail  must  go  through  with  its  mes 
sage  of  love, 

The  miners  were  waiting  his  bright  bugle 
horn. 

The  man  must  go  through!  And  Monk 
made  a  vow 

As  he  never  had  failed,  why,  he  wouldn't 
fail  now! 


232 


LATER    POEMS. 


How  his  stage  spun  the  pines  like  a  far 

spider's  web! 
It  was  spider  and  fly  in  the  heavens  up 

there! 
And  the  clanging  of  hoofs  made  the  blood 

flow  and  ebb, 
For  'twas  death  in  the  breadth  of  a  wheel 

or  a  hair. 
Once  more  popped  the  head,  and  the  piping 

voice  cried: 
"Mr.  Monk!    Mr.  Monk! "    But  no  Monk 

replied! 

Then   the  great   stage  it  swung,  as  if 

swung  from  the  sky; 
Then  it   dipped  like  a  ship  in  the  deep 

jaws  of  death; 

Then  the  good  man  he  gasped  as  men  gasp 
ing  for  breath, 
When  they  deem  it  is  coming  their  hour 

to  die. 
And  again  shot  the  head,  like  a  battering 

ram, 
And  the  face  it  was  red,  and  the  words 

they  were  hot: 
"Mr.  Monk!     Mr.  Monk!     I  don't  care  a 

(mill?)  dam. 
Whether  I  lecture  in  Nevada  or  not!  " 


THAT  FAITHFUL  WIFE  OF  IDAHO. 

Huge  silver  snow-peaks,  white  as  wool, 
Huge,  sleek,  fat  steers  knee  deep  in  grass, 
And  belly  deep,  and  belly  full, 
Their  flower  beds  one  fragrant  mass 
Of  flowers,  grass  tall-born  and  grand, 
Where  flowers  chase  the  flying  snow! 
Oh,  high  held  land  in  God's  right  hand, 
Delicious,  dreamful  Idaho! 


We  rode  the  rolling  cow-sown  hills, 
That  bearded  cattle  man  and  I; 
Below  us  laughed  the  blossomed  rills, 


Above  the  dappled  clouds  blew  by. 

We  talked.     The    topic?     Guess.     Why, 

sir, 
Three-fourths    of    all    men's    time    they 

keep 

To  talk,  to  think,  to  be  of  HER; 
The  other  fourth  they  give  to  sleep. 


To  learn  what  he  might  know,  or  how, 
I  laughed  all  constancy  to  scorn. 
"Behold  yon  happy,  changeful  cow! 
Behold  this  day,  all  storm  at  morn, 
Yet  now  'tis  changed  by  cloud  and  sun, 
Yea,    all    things   change— the   heart,    the 

head, 

Behold  on  earth  there  is  not  one 
That  changeth  not  in  love,"  I  said. 

He  drew  a  glass,  as  if  to  scan 
The  steeps  for  steers;  raised  it  and  sighed. 
He  craned  his  neck,  this  cattle  man, 
Then  drove  the  cork  home  and  replied: 
"For  twenty  years  (forgive  these  tears), 
For  twenty  years  no  word  of  strife — 
I  have  not  known  for  twenty  years 
One  folly  from  my  faithful  wife." 


I  looked  that  tarn  man  in  the  face — 
That  dark-browed,  bearded  cattle  man. 
He  pulled  his  beard,  then  dropped  in 

place 

A  broad  right  hand,  all  scarred  and  tan, 
And  toyed  with  something  shining  there 
Above  his  holster,  bright  and  small. 
I  was  convinced.     I  did  not  care 
To  agitate  his  mind  at  all. 

But  rest  I  could  not.     Know  I  must 
The  story  of  my  stalwart  guide; 
His  dauntless  love,  enduring  trust; 
His  blessed  and  most  wondrous  bride. 
I  wondered,  marveled,  marveled  much; 
Was  she  of  Western  growth?     Was  she 


LATER    POEMS. 


233 


Of  Saxon  blood,  that  wife  with  such 
Eternal  truth  and  constancy? 

I  could  not  rest  until  I  knew — 
"Now  twenty  years,  my  man,"  I  said, 
"  Is  a  long  time."    He  turned,  he  drew 
A  pistol  forth,  also  a  sigh. 
"'Tis  twenty  years  or  more,"  sighed  he. 
"Nay,  nay,  my  honest  man,  I  vow 
I  do  not  doubt  that  this  may  be; 
But  tell,  oh!  tell  me  truly  how? " 

"  'T would  make  a  poem,  pure  and  grand; 
All  time  should  note  it  near  and  far; 
And  thy  fair,  virgin,  gold-sown  land 
Should  stand  out  like  some  winter  star. 
America  should  heed.     And  then 
The  doubtful  French  beyond  the  sea — 
'Twould  make  them  truer,  nobler  men 
To  know  how  this  might  truly  be." 

'"Tis  twenty  years  or  more,    urged  he; 
"  Nay,  that  I  know,  good  guide  of  mine; 
But  lead  me  where  this  wife  may  be, 
And  I  a  pilgrim  at  a  shrine, 
And  kneeling  as  a  pilgrim  true  " — 
He,  leaning,  shouted  loud  and  clear: 
"I  cannot  show  my  wife  to  you; 
She's  dead  this  more  than  twenty  year." 


SARATOGA  AND  THE  PSALMIST. 

These  famous  waters  smell  like— well, 
Those  Saratoga  waters  may 
Taste  just  a  little  of  the  day 
Of  judgment;  and  the  sulphur  smell 
Suggests,  along  with  other  things, 
A  climate  rather  warm  for  springs. 


But  restful  as  a  twilight  song, 
The  land  where  every  lover  hath 
A  spring,  and  every  spring  a  path 


To  lead  love  pleasantly  along. 

Oh,  there  be  waters,  not  of  springs — 

The  waters  wise  King  David  sings. 

Sweet  is  the  bread  that  lovers  eat 
In  secret,  sang  on  harp  of  gold, 
Jerusalem's  high  king  of  old. 
"  The  stolen  waters  they  are  sweet!" 
Oh,  dear,  delicious  piracies 
Of  kisses  upon  love's  high  seas! 

The  old  traditions  of  our  race 
Eepeat  for  aye  and  still  repeat; 
The  stolen  waters  still  are  sweet 
As  when  King  David  sat  in  place, 
All  purple  robed  and  crowned  in  gold, 
And  sang  his  holy  psalms  of  old. 

Oh,  to  escape  the  searching  sun; 
To  seek  these  waters  over  sweet; 
To  see  her  dip  her  dimpled  feet 
Where  these  delicious  waters  run — 
To  dip  her  feet,  nor  slip  nor  fall, 
Nor  stain  her  garment's  hem  at  all: 

Nor  soil  the  whiteness  of  her  feet, 
Nor  stain  her  whitest  garment's  hem — 
Oh,  singer  of  Jerusalem, 
You  sang  so  sweet,  so  wisely  sweet! 
Shake  hands!  shake  hands!  I  guess  you 

knew 
For  all  your  psalms,  a  thing  or  two. 


A  TUEKEY  HUNT  ON  THE  COLOEADO 

(AS  TOLD  AT  DINNER.) 

No,  sir;  no  turkey  for  me,  sir.   But  soft, 

place  it  there, 
Lest    friends    may    make    question    and 

strangers  may  stare. 
Ah,  the  thought  of  that  hunt  in  the  canon, 

the  blood — 


234 


LATER    POEMS. 


Nay,  gently,  please,  gently!  You  open  a 
flood 

Of  memories,  memories  melting  me  so 

That  I  rise  in  my  place  and— excuse  me — 
I  go. 

No?  You  must  have  the  story  ?  And  you, 
lady  fair? 

And  you,  and  you  all?  Why,  it's  blood 
and  despair; 

And  'twere  not  kind  in  me,  not  manly  or 
wise 

To  bring  tears  at  such  time  to  such  beau 
tiful  eyes. 

I  remember  me  now  the  last  time  I  told 
This  story  a  Persian  in  diamonds  and  gold 
Sat  next  to  good  Gladstone,  there  was 

Wales  to  the  right, 

Then  a  Duke,  then  an  Earl,  and  such  la 
dies  in  white! 
But  I  stopped,   sudden  stopped,  lest  the 

story  might  start 
The  blood  freezing  back  to  each  feminine 

heart. 
But  they  all  said,  "The  story!"  just  as 

you  all  have  said, 
And  the  great  Persian  monarch  he  nodded 

his  head 
Till    his     diamond-decked    feathers    fell, 

glittered  and  rose, 
Then    nodded   almost  to    his   Ishmaelite 

nose. 


The  story!  Ah,  pardon!  'Twas  high 
Christmas  tide 

And  just  beef  and  beans;  yet  the  land,  far 
and  wide, 

Was  alive  with  such  turkeys  of  silver  and 
gold 

As  men  never  born  to  the  north  may  be 
hold. 

And  Apaches?  Aye,  Apaches,  and  they 
took  this  game 

In  a  pen,  tolled  it  in.  Might  not  we  do 
the  same? 


So  two  of  us  started,  strewing  corn,  Indian 

corn, 
Tow'rd  a  great  granite  gorge  with  the  first 

flush  of  morn; 
Started   gay,    laughing    back    from     the 

broad  mesa's  breast, 
At  the  bravest  of  men,  who  but  warned  for 

the  best. 


We  built  a  great  pen  from   the  sweet 

cedar  wood 
Tumbled  down  from  a  crown  where  the 

sentry  stars  stood. 
Scarce  done,  when  the  turkeys  in  line — 

such  a  sight! 
Picking  corn  from  the  sand,  russet  gold, 

silver  white, 
And  so  fat  that  they  scarcely  could  waddle 

or  hobble. 
And   'twas  "Queek,    tukee,  queek,"  and 

'twas,  "  gobble  and  gobble!  " 
And  their  great,  full  crops  they  did  wabble 

and  wabble 
As  their  bright,   high  heads  they  did  bob, 

bow  and  bobble, 
Down,  up,  through  the  trench,  crowding 

up  in  the  pen. 
Now,  quick,  block  the  trench!    Then  the 

mules  and  the  men ! 


Springing  forth  from   our  cove,    guns 

leaned  to  a  rock, 
How  we  laughed!     What  a  feast!     We  had 

got  the  whole  flock. 
How  we   worked  till   the  trench  was  all 

blocked  close  and  tight, 
For  we  hungered,  and,  too,  the  near  coming 

of  night, 
Then  the  thought  of  our  welcome.     The 

news?     We  could  hear 
Already,    we    fancied,    the    great    hearty 

cheer 
As  we  rushed  into  camp  and  exultingly 

told 


LATER    POEMS. 


235 


Of  tlie  mule  loads  of  turkeys  in  silver  and 

gold. 
Then  we  turned  for  our  guns.    Our  guns  ? 

In  their  place 
Ten  Apaches  stood  there,  and  five  guns  in 

each  face. 


And   we   stood!  we  stood  straight    and 

stood  strong,  track  solid  to  track. 
What,  turn,  try  to  fly  and  be  shot  in  the 

back? 
No!     We  threw    hats    in    the  air.      We 

should  not  need  them  more. 
And  yelled!     Yelled  as  never  yelled  man 

or  Coinanche  before. 
We  dared  them,  defied  them,  right  there 

in  their  lair. 
Why,    we  leaned  to  their   guns    in    our 

splendid  despair. 
What!  spared  us  for  bravery,  because  we 

dared  death? 
You  know  the  tale?    Tell  it,  and  spare  me 

my  breath. 
No,  sir.     They  killed  us,  killed  us  both, 

there  and  then, 
And  then  nailed  our  scalps  to  that  turkey 

pen. 


THE  CAPUCIN  OF  EOME. 

Only  a  basket  for  fruits  or  bread 
And  the  bits  you  divide  with  your  dog, 

which  you 
Had  left  from  your  dinner.     The  round 

year  through 
He  never  once  smiles.     He    bends    his 

head 

To  the  scorn  of  men.      He  gives  the  road 
To  the  grave   ass  groaning  beneath   his 

load. 

He  is  ever  alone.    Lo!  never  a  hand 
Is  laid  in  his  hand  through  the  whole  wide 

land, 


Save  when  a  man   dies,  and   he   shrives 

him  home. 
And  that  is  the  Capucin  monk  of  Rome. 

He  coughs,  he  is  hump'd,  and  he  hob 
bles  about 
In   sandals    of   wood.     Then  a    hempen 

cord 

Girdles  his  loathsome  gown.     Abhorr'd! 
Ay,  lonely,  indeed,  as  a  leper  cast  out. 
One  gown  in  three  years!  and — bah!  how 

he  smells! 

He  slept  last  night  in  his  coffin  of  stone, 
This   monk  that   coughs,   this  skin   and 

bone, 
This  living  dead  corpse  from  the  damp, 

cold  cells, — 
Go    ye    where    the   Pincian,    half-level'd 

down, 
Slopes  slow  to  the  south.     These  men  in 

brown 
Have  a  monkery  there,  quaint,  builded  of 

stone; 
And,  living  or  dead,  'tis  the  brown  men's 

home, — 
These  dead  brown  monks  who  are  living 

in  Rome! 


You    will    hear  wood    sandals   on    the 

sanded  floor; 
A  cough,  then  the  lift  of  a  latch,  then  the 

door 
Groans  open,  and — horror!     Four  walls  of 

stone 
All  gorgeous  with  flowers  and  frescoes  of 

bone! 
There  are  bones  in  the  corners  and  bones 

011  the  wall; 
And  he  barks  like  a  dog  that  watches  his 

bone, 
This   monk  in  brown   from    his  bed    of 

stone — 

He  barks,  and  he  coughs,  and  that  is  all. 
At  last  he  will  cough  as  if  up  from  his 

cell; 


236 


LATER    POEMS. 


Then  strut  with  considerable  pride  about, 
And  lead  through  his  blossoms  of  bone, 

and  smell 
Their  odors;  then  talk,  as  he  points  them 

out, 
Of  the  virtues  and  deeds  of  the  gents  who 

wore 
The  respective  bones  but  the  year  before. 

Then  he  thaws  at  last,  ere  the  bones  are 

through, 

And  talks  right  well  as  he  turns  them 
about 

And  stirs  up  a  most  unsavory  smell; 

Yea,  talks  of  his  brown  dead  brothers,  till 
you 

Wish  them,  as  they  are,    no  doubt,  in- 
well, 

A  very  deep   well.... And  that  may  be 
why, 

As  he  shows  you  the  door  and  bows  good- 

by, 

That  he  bows  so  low  for  a  franc  or  two, 
To  shrive  their  souls  and  to  get  them  out — 
These  bony  brown  men   who  have  their 

home, 
Dead  or  alive,  in  their  cells  at  Eome. 

What   good   does  he  do  in  the  world? 

Ah!  well, 
Now  that  is  a  puzzler But,  listen !     He 

prays. 

His  life  is  the  fast  of  the  forty  days. 
He  seeks   the    despised;    he  divides   the 

bread 
That  he  begg'd  on  his  knees,  does  this  old 

shavehead. 
And  then,  when  the  thief  and  the  beggar 

fell! 
And  then,  when  the  terrible  plague  came 

down, 
Christ!    how  we  cried  to  these  men  in 

brown 
When  other  men  fled!   Ah,  who  then  was 

seen 
Stand  firm  to  the  death  like  the  Capucin  ? 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE. 

Night  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep; 
Her  brows  are  gather 'd  as  in  broken  rest. 
A  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the  deep! 
'Tis  morn,   new-born,  with  a  star  on  her 

breast, 

White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  West! 
Hist!  men  are  passing  me  hurriedly. 
I  see  the  yellow,  wide  wings  of  a  bark, 
Sail  silently  over  my  morning  star. 
I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dark, 
Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are; 
Great,  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see, 
With   hair  push'd  back,   and  with  open 

breasts; 

Barefooted  fishermen,  seeking  their  boats, 
Brown  as  walnuts,  and  hairy  as  goats, — 
Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea, 
First  to  their  labors  and  last  to  their  rests. 


Ships  are  moving!     I  hear  a  horn, — 
Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 
'Tis  the  sentinel  boats  that  watch  the  town 
All  night,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 
And    watching    for  pirate  or    smuggler. 

Down 

Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away, 
And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls, 
Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn, 
And  I    catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of 

day. 


The  east  is  blossoming!    Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
Rises  and  reaches,  and  widens  and  grows 
Large  and  luminous  up  from  the  sea, 
And  out  of  the  sea  as  a  blossoming  tree. 
Richer  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher, 
Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue; 
Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  to  the  place  of  stars. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms,  from 
the  sea; 


LATER    POEMS. 


237 


Then  lauces  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and 

bars 
Are  broken  and  shiver'd  and  strown  on  the 

sea; 

And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 


COMO. 

The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  of  broken 
moon 

Just  newly  set  within  the  cloven  earth; 

The  ripen'd  fields  drew  round  a  golden 
girth 

Far  up  the  steeps,  and  glittered  in  the 
noon; 

And  when  the  sun  fell  down,  from  leafy 
shore 

Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar; 

The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  fleck'd  the  blue; 

From  out  the  Alps  the  moon  came  wheel 
ing  through 

The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 

A  gala  night  it  was,  —the  season's  prime. 
We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town, 
To  fair  Milan — my  friend    and   I;   rode 

down 
By  night,  where  grasses  waved  in  rippled 

rhyme: 
And  so,  what  theme  but  love  at  such  a 

time? 
His  proud  lip  curl'd  the  while  with  silent 

scorn 

At  thought  of  love;  and  then,  as  one  for 
lorn, 
He  sigh'd;  then  bared  his  temples,  dash'd 

with  gray; 
Then  mock'd,  as  one  outworn  and  well 

blase. 

A  gorgeous  tiger  lily,  naming  red, — 
So  full  of  battle,  of  the  trumpets  blare, 


Of  old-time  passion,  uprear'd  its  head. 
I  gallop'd  past.     I  lean'd,    I  clutch'd  it 

there 
From  out  the  stormy  grass.    I   held   it 

high, 
And  cried:  "Lo!  this  to-night  shall  deck 

her  hair 
Through  all  the  dance.    And  mark!  the 

man  shall  die 

Who  dares  assault,  for  good  or  ill  design, 
The  citadel  where  I  shall  set  this  sign." 


O,  she  shone  fairer  than  the  summer 

star, 

Or  curl'd  sweet  moon  in  middle  destiny; 
More  fair  than  sun-morn  climbing  up  the 

sea, 

Where  all  the  loves  of  Adriana  are .... 
Who  loves,  who  truly  loves,  will   stand 

aloof: 
The   noisy   tongue  makes   most    unholy 

proof 

Of  shallow  passion ...  .All  the  while  afar 
From  out  the  dance  I  stood  aud  watched 

my  star, 
My  tiger  lily  borne,  an  oriflarnme  of   war. 


Adown  the  dance  she  moved  with  match 
less  grace. 
The  world— my  world— moved  with  her. 

Suddenly 

I  question'd  whom  her  cavalier  might  be? 
'Twas  he!     His  face  was  leaning  to  her 

face! 
I  clutch'd  my  blade;  I  sprang,  I  caught  my 

breath, — 
And  so,  stood   leaning  cold  and  still  as 

death. 
And   they  stood  still.     She  blushed,  then 

reach'd  and  tore 
The  lily  as   she  pass'd,    and    down  the 

floor 
She  strew'd  its  heart  like  jets  of  gushing 

gore .... 


238 


LATER    POEMS. 


'Twas  he  said  heads,  not  hearts,  were 

made  to  break: 
He  taught    this    that   night  in   splendid 

scorn. 
I  learn'd  too  well . . .  .The  dance  was  done. 

ere  morn 
We    mounted — he    and   I — but   no    more 

spake .... 

And  this  for  woman's  love!  My  lily  worn 
In  her  dark  hair  in  pride,  to  then  be  torn 
And  trampled  on,  for  this  bold  stranger's 

sake! 

Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake; 
Two  men  rode  silent  down — but  only  one 
Rode  up  at  morn  to  meet  the  rising  sun. 

The  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags  as  half  asleep, 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 
The  walls  are  steep, 
The  waves  are  deep; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drown 'd  ? 


BURNS. 

Eld  Druid  oaks  of  Ayr, 
Precepts  I    Poems  \     Pages  ! 
Lessons  1    Leaves,  and   Volumes  ! 
Arches!     Pillars!    Columns 
In  corridors  of  ages  ! 
Grand  patriarchal  sages 
Lifting  palms  in  prayer! 

The  Druid  beards  are  drifting 
And  shifting  to  and  fro, 
In  gentle  breezes  lifting. 

That  bat-like  come  and  go. 

The  while  the  moon  is  sifting 
A  sheen  of  shining  snow 


On  all  these  blossoms  lifting 
Their  blue  eyes  from  below. 

No,   'tis  not  phantoms  walking 
That  you  hear  rustling  there, 
But  bearded  Druids  talking, 
And  turning  leaves  in  prayer. 
No,  not  a  night-bird  singing 
Nor  breeze  the  broad  bough  swinging, 
But  that  bough  holds  a  censer, 
And  swings  it  to  and  fro. 
'Tis  Sunday  eve,  remember, 
That's  why  they  chant  so  low. 

I  linger  in  the  autumn  noon, 
I  listen  to  the  partridge  call, 
I  watch  the  yellow  leaflets  fall 
And  drift  adown  the  dimpled  Doon. 
I  lean  me  o'er  the  ivy-grown 
Auld  brig,  where  Vandal  tourists'  tools 
Have   ribb'd   out   names   that    would   be 

known, 
Are  known — known  as  a  herd  of  fools. 


Down  Ailsa  Craig  the  sun  declines, 
With  lances  level'd  here  and  there— 
The  tinted  thorns!  the  trailing  vines! 

0  braes  of  Dooii!  so  fond,  so  fair! 
So  passing  fair,  so  more  than  fond! 
The  Poet's  place  of  birth  beyond, 
Beyond  the  mellow  bells  of  Ayr! 

I  hear  the  milk-maid's  twilight  song 
Come    bravely    through    the    storm -bent 

oaks; 

Beyond,  the  white  surf's  sullen  strokes 
Beat  in  a  chorus  deep  and  strong; 

1  hear  the  sounding  forge  afar, 
And  rush  and  rumble  of  the  car, 
The  steady  tinkle  of  the  bell 

Of  lazy,  laden,  home-bound  cows 
That  stop  to  bellow  and  to  browse; 
I  breathe  the  soft  sea-wind  as  well. 


LATER    POEMS. 


239 


O   Burns!   where   bid?    where   bide   ye 

now? 

Where  rest  you  in  this  night's  full  noon, 
Great  master  of  the  pen  and  plow? 
Might  you  not  on  yon  slanting  beam 
Of  moonlight  kneeling  to  the  Doon, 
Descend  once  to  this  hallow'd  stream? 
Sure  yon  stars  yield  enough  of  light 
For  heaven  to  spare  your  face  one  night. 

0  Burns!  another  name  for  song, 
Another  name  for  passion — pride; 
For  love  and  poesy  allied; 

For  strangely  blended  right  and  wrong. 

1  picture  you  as  one  who  kneel'd 
A  stranger  at  his  own  hearthstone; 
One  knowing  all,  yet  all  unknown, 
One  seeing  all,  yet  all  conceal'd; 
The  fitful  years  you  liuger'd  here 
A  lease  of  peril  and  of  pain; 

And  I  am  thankful  yet  again 

The  gods  did  love  you,  plowman!  peer! 

In  all  your  own  and  other  lands, 
I  hear  your  touching  songs  of  cheer; 
The  lowly  peasant,  lordly  peer. 
Above  your  honor'd  dust  strike  hands. 


A  touch  of  tenderness  is  shown 
In  this  unselfish  love  of  Ayr, 
And  it  is  well,  you  earn'd  it  fair; 
For  all  unhelmeted,  alone, 
You  proved  a  plowman's  honest  claim 
To  battle  in  the  lists  of  fame; 
You  earn'd  it  as  a  warrior  earns 
His  laurels  fighting  for  his  land, 
And  died— it  was  your  right  to  go. 


O  eloquence  of  silent  woe! 

The  Master  leaning,  reach'd  a  hand, 

And  whisper'd,  "It  is  finish'd,  Burns!  '" 

O  sad,  sweet  singer  of  a  Spring! 
Yours  was  a  chill,  uncheerful  May, 
And  you  knew  no  full  days  of  June; 
You  ran  too  swiftly  up  the  way, 
And  wearied  soon,  so  over-soon! 
You  sang  in  weariness  and  woe; 
You  falter'd,  and  God  heard  you  sing, 
Then  touch'd  your  hand  and  led  you  so, 
You  found  life's  hill-top  low,  so  low, 
You  cross'd  its  summit  long  ere  noon. 
Thus  sooner  than  one  would  suppose 
Some  weary  feet  will  find  repose. 


BYKON.* 

In  men  whom  men  condemn  as  ill 
I  find  so  much  of  goodness  still, 
In  men  whom  men  pronounce  divine 
I  find  so  much  of  sin  and  blot, 
I  do  not  dare  to  draw  a  line 
Between  the  two,  where  God  has  not. 


O  cold  and  cruel  Nottingham! 
In  disappointment  and  in  tears, 
Sad,  lost,  and  lonely,  here  I  am 
To  question,  "Is  this  Nottingham, 
Of  which  I  dream'd  for  years  and  years  ?" 
I  seek  in  vain  for  name  or  sign 
Of  him  who  made  this  mold  a  shrine, 
A  Mecca  to  the  fair  and  fond 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  still  beyond. 

Where  white  clouds  crush  their  droop 
ing  wings 


*The  little  old  church  where  Byron,  with  all  his  kindred,  are  buried,  at  Hucknall  Tokard,  Nottes,  has  been 
twice  torn  down  and  rebuilt  since  the  above  was  written,  although  it  had  stood  for  centuries  little  better 
than  a  ruin.  A  wreath  of  bay  was  laid  above  his  dust,  from  Ina  D.  Coolbrith.  The  vicar  there  protested. 
The  matter  was  appealed  to  the  Bishop.  The  Bishop  answered  by  sending  another  wreath.  Then  the  King 
of  Greece  sent  a  wreath.  Then  the  rebuilding  began. 


240 


LATER    POEMS, 


Against  my  snow-crown'd  battlements, 
And  peaks  that  flash  like  silver  tents; 
Where  Sacramento's  fountain  springs, 
And  proud  Columbia  frets  his  shore 
Of  somber,  boundless  wood  and  wold, 
And  lifts  his  yellow  sands  of  gold 
In  plaintive  murmurs  evermore; 
Where  snowy  dimpled  Tahoe  smiles, 
And  where  white  breakers  from  the  sea, 
In  solid  phalanx  knee  to  knee, 
Surround  the  calm  Pacific  Isles, 
Then  run  and  reach  unto  the  land 
And  spread  their  thin  palms  on  the  sand, — 
Is  he  supreme — there  understood: 
The  free  can  understand  the  free; 
The  brave  and  good  the  brave  and  good. 

Yea,  he  did  sin;  who  hath  reveal'd 
That  he  was  more  than  man,  or  less  ? 
Yet  sinn'd  no  more;  but  less  conceal'd 
Than  they  who  cloak'd  their  follies  o'er, 
And  then  cast  stones  in  his  distress, 
He  scorn'd  to  make  the  good  seem  more, 
Or  make  the  bitter  sin  seem  less. 
And  so  his  very  manliness 
The  seeds  of  persecution  bore. 

When  all  his  songs  and  fervid  love 
Brought  back  no  olive  branch  or  dove, 
Or  love  or  trust  from  any  one, 
Proud,  all  unpitied  and  alone 
He  lived  to  make  himself  unknown, 
Disdaining  love  and  yielding  none. 
Like  some  high-lifted  sea-girt  stone 
That  could  not  stoop,  but  all  the  days, 
With  proud  brow  fronted  to  the  breeze, 
Felt  seas  blown  from  the  south,  and  seas 
Blown  from  the  north,  and  many  ways, 
He  stood— a  solitary  light 
In  stormy  seas  and  settled  night — 
Then  fell,  but  stirr'd  the  seas  as  far 
As  winds  and  waves  and  waters  are. 

The  meek-eyed  stars  are  cold  and  white 
And  steady,  fix'd  for  all  the  years; 


The  comet  burns  the  wings  of  night, 
And  dazzles  elements  and  spheres, 
Then  dies  in  beauty  and  a  blaze 
Of  light,  blown  far  through  other  days. 

The  poet's  passion,  sense  of  pride, 
His  boundless  love,  the  wooing  throng 
Of  sweet  temptations  that  betide 
The  warm  and  wayward  child  of  song, 
The  world  knows  not:  I  lift  a  hand 
To  ye  who  know,  who  understand. 


The  ancient  Abbey's  breast  is  broad, 
And  stout  her  massive  walls  of  stone; 
But  let  him  lie,  repose  alone 
Ungather'd  with  the  great  of  God, 
In  dust,  by  his  fierce  fellow  man. 
Some  one,   some  day,  loud  voiced    will 


And  say  the  broad  breast  was  not  broad, 
The  walls  of  stone  were  all  too  weak 
To  hold  the  proud  dust,  in  their  plan; 
The  hollow  of  God's  great  right  hand 
Receives  it;  let  it  rest  with  God. 

In  sad  but  beautiful  decay 
Gray  Hucknall  kneels  into  the  dust, 
And,  cherishing  her  sacred  trust, 
Does  blend  her  clay  with  lordly  clay. 

No  sign  or  cryptic  stone  or  cross 
Unto  the  passing  world  has  said, 
"  He  died,  and  we  deplore  his  loss." 
No  sound  of  sandall'd  pilgrims'  tread 
Disturbs  the  pilgrim's  peaceful  rest, 
Or  frets  the  proud,  impatient  breast. 
The  bat  flits  through  the  broken  pane, 
The  black  swift  swallow  gathers  moss, 
And  builds  in  peace  above  his  head, 
Then  goes,  then  comes,  and  builds  again. 

And  it  is  well;  not  otherwise 
Would  he,  the  grand  sad  singer,  will. 


LATER    POEMS. 


24I 


The  serene  peace  of  paradise 

He  sought — 'tis  his — the  storm  is  still. 

Secure  in  his  eternal  fame, 

And  blended  pity  and  respect, 

He  does  not  feel  the  cold  neglect, 

And  England  does  not  fear  the  shame. 


ABOVE  THE  CLOUDS. 

'Mid  white  Sierras,  that  slope  to  the  sea, 
Lie  turbulent  lands.     Go  dwell  in  the 

skies, 

And  the  thundering  tongues  of  Yosemite 
Shall   persuade  you  to   silence,   and  you 

shall  be  wise. 

I  but  sing  for  the  love  of  song  and  the 

few 

Who  loved  me  first  and  shall  love  me  last; 
And  the  storm  shall  pass  as  the  storms 

have  pass'd, 
For  never  were  clouds  but  the  sun  came 

through. 


A  CALIFORNIA  CHRISTMAS. 

Behold  where  Beauty  walks  with  Peace! 
Behold  where  Plenty  pours  her  horn 
Of  fruits,  of  flowers,  fat  increase, 
As  generous  as  light  of  morn. 

Green  Shasta,  San  Diego,  seas 
Of  bloom  and  green  between  them  rolled. 
Great  herds  in  grasses  to  their  knees, 
And  green  earth  garmented  in  gold. 

White  peaks  that  prop  the  sapphire  blue 
Look  down  on  Edens,  such  as  when 
That  fair,  first  spot  perfection  knew 
And  God  walked  perfect  earth  with  men. 


I  say  God's  kingdom  is  at  hand 
Eight  here,  if  we  but  lift  our  eyes; 


I  say  there  lies  no  line  or  land 
Between  this  land  and  Paradise. 


THANKSGIVING,  1896. 

Thank  God  for  high,  white  holy  Truth, 
To  feed  the  world  instead  of  sham; 
Lo,  laden,  patient,  lowly  Euth! 
Lo,  Abram's  sacrificial  ram! 
Thank  God  for  Abram's  faith  of  old; 
Thank  God  for  man's  faith  in  God's  plan. 
But  thank  God  most — and  manifold 
For  man's  great,  growing  faith  in  man. 


We  round  up,  up;  round  on  and  on, 
As  rounding  eagles  rise  and  rise! 
The  darkest  hour  ushers  dawn, 
And  dawn  is  dashing  up  the  skies! 
Thank  God  for  light,  God's  face  is  light; 
The  light  of  Truth,  of  faith  in  kind — 
The  light  of  Love,  the  light  of  Eight, 
The  blind  no  more  may  lead  the  blind! 


Just  Truth  and  Faith  and  steady  Light, 
And  mad  sensation  is  no  more; 
The  fakir  folds  his  tent  of  night 
And  finds  his  dim  Plutonian  shore. 
The  people  live,  the  people  love, 
The  people  are  once  more  divine: 
Put  forth  thy  hand,  receive  the  dove, 
Descend  and  taste  the  corn  and  wine. 


Thank  God  so  much  for  laden  Euth, 
For  plenty  poured  from  pole  to  pole; 
But  thank  God  most  for  Faith  and  Truth, 
For  meats  that  feed  the  famished  soul: 
For  light  wherewith  to  know  to  feed, 
For  Light,  for  God's  face  far  and  near; 
For  love  that  knows  not  lust  nor  greed, 
For  faith  that  calmly  smiles  at  fear. 


LATER    POEMS. 


"49."* 

We  have  worked  our  claims, 
We  have  spent  our  gold, 
Our  barks  are  astrand  on  the  bars; 
We  are  battered  and  old, 
Yet  at  night  we  behold, 
Outcroppings  of  gold  in  the  stars. 

Chorum — Tho'  battered  and  old, 
Our  hearts  are  bold, 
Yet  oft  do  we  repine; 
For  the  days  of  old, 
For  the  days  of  gold, 
For  the  days  of  forty-nine. 


Where  the  rabbits  play, 
Where  the  quail  all  day 
Pipe  on  the  chaparral  hill; 
A  few  more  days, 
And  the  last  of  us  lays 
His  pick  aside  and  all  is  still. 
Chorus — 

We  are  wreck  and  stray, 
We  are  cast  away, 
Poor  battered  old  hulks  and  spars; 
But  we  hope  and  pray, 
OB  the  judgment  day, 
We  shall  strike  it  up  in  the  stars. 
Chorus — 


BATTLES. 

Nay,  not  for  fame,  but  for  the  Right; 
To  make  this  fair  world  fairer  still. 
Or  lordly  lily  of  a  night, 
Or  sun-topped  tower  of  a  hill, 
Or  high  or  low,  or  near  or  far, 
Or  dull  or  keen,  or  bright  or  dim, 


Or  blade  of  glass,  or  brightest  star, 
All,  all  are  but  the  same  to  Him. 

O  pity  of  the  strife  for  place; 
O  pity  of  the  strife  for  power; 
How   scarred,  how  marred  a  mountain's 

face; 

How  fair  the  fair  face  of  a  flower. 
The  blade  of  grass  beneath  your  feet, 
The  bravest  sword:  ay,  braver  far, 
To  do  and  die  in  mute  defeat, 
Thou  bravest  Conqueror  of  war. 

When  I  am  dead  say  this,  but  this, 
He  grasped  at  no  man's  blade  or  shield, 
Or  banner  bore,  but  helmetless, 
Alone,  unknown,  he  held  the  field; 
He  held  the  field  with  saber  drawn, 
Where  God  had  set  him  in  the  fight; 
He  held  the  field,  fought  on  and  on, 
And  so  fell  fighting  for  the  Eight. 


SAN  DIEGO. 

"  0  for  a  beaker  oj  the  warm  South; 
The  true,  the  blushful  hypocrine!" 

What    shall  be  said   of    the    sun-born 

Pueblo? 
This  town  sudden  born  in  the  path  of  the 

sun? 
This  town  of  St.  James,  of  the  calm  San 

Diego, 
As  suddenly  born  as  if  shot  from  a  gun? 

Why,  speak  of  her  warmly;  why,  write 

her  name  down 

As  softer  than  sunlight,  as  warmer  than 
wine! 


*This  poem  is  taken  from  '"49,  or  the  Gold  Seekers,"  by  permission  of  Funk  &  Wagualls,  New  York, 
publishers  of  the  book.  The  words  have  been  set  to  music  and  selected  as  the  Song  of  the  Native  Sons  of  Cali 
fornia.  It  was  sung  in  Mining  Camps  long  before  it  was  in  print.  They  are  my  first  lines  that  have  lived,  but 
are  much  altered  from  the  original. 


LATER    POEMS. 


243 


Why  speak  of  her  bravely;  this  ultimate 
town 

With  feet  in  the  foam  of  the  vast  Argen 
tine: 


The  vast  argent  seas  of  the  Aztec,  of 

Cortez! 
The  boundless  white  border  of  battle-torn 

lands — 
The   fall    of    Napoleon,    the  rise   of    red 

Juarez — 
The  footfalls  of  nations  are  heard  on  her 

sands. 


PIONEERS  TO  THE  GREAT  EMERALD 
LAND. 

BEAD  AT  PORTLAND,    1896. 

Emerald,  emerald,  emerald  Land; 
Land  of  the  sun  mists,  land  of  the  sea, 
Stately  and  stainless  and  storied  and  grand 
As  cloud-mantled  Hood  in  white  majesty — 
Mother  of  States,  we  are  worn,   we  are 

gray- 
Mother  of  men,  we  are  going  away. 


Mother  of  States,  tall  mother  of  men, 
Of  cities,  of  churches,  of  homes,  of  sweet 

rest, 
We   are  going  away,    we  must    journey 

again, 
As  of  old  we  journeyed  to   the  vast,  far 

West. 

We  tent  by  the  river,  our  feet  once  more, 
Please  God,  are  set  for  the  ultimate  shore. 


Mother,  white  mother,  white  Oregon 
In  emerald  kilt,  with  star-set  crown 
Of  sapphire,  say  is  it  night  ?    Is  it  dawn  ? 
Say  what   of   the  night?    Is   it  well  up 
and  down? 


We  are   going  away.... From   yon   high 

watch  tower, 
Young  men,  strong  men,  say,  what  of  the 

hour? 


Young  men,  strong  men,  there  is  work 

to  be  done; 

Faith  to  be  cherished,  battles  to  fight, 
Victories  won  were  never  well  won 
Save  fearlessly  won  for  God  and  the  right. 
These  cities,   these   homes,    sweet   peace 

and  her  spell 
Be  ashes,  but  ashes,  with  the  infidel. 


Have  Faith,  such  Faith  as  your  fathers 

knew, 

All  else  must  follow  if  you  have  but  Faith. 
Be  true  to  their  Faith,  and  you  must  be 

true. 
"Lo!    I   will  be   with   you,"  the  Master 

saith. 
Good  by,  dawn  breaks;  it  is  coming  full 

day 
And  one  by  one  we  strike  tent  and  away. 

Good  by.      Slow    folding    our     snow- 
white  tents, 

Our  dim  eyes  lift  to  the  farther  shore, 
And  never  these  riddled,  gray  regiments 
Shall  answer  full  roll-call  any  more. 
Yet  never  a  doubt,  nay,  never  a  fear 
Of  old,  or  now,  knew  the  Pioneer. 


ALASKA. 

Ice  built,  ice  bound  and  ice  bounded, 
Such  cold  seas  of  silence!  such  room? 
Such  snow-light,  such  sea  light  confounded 
With  thunders  that  smite  like  a  doom! 
Such  grandeur!  such  glory!  such  gloom! 
Hear  that  boom!     Hear  that  deep  distant 
boom 


244 


LATER    POEMS. 


Of  an  avalanche  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world! 

Ice  seas!  and  ice  summits!  ice  spaces 
In  splendor  of  white,  as  God's  throne! 
Ice  worlds  to  the  pole!  and  ice  places 
Untracked,  and  unnamed,  and  unknown! 
Hear  that  boom!     Hear  the  grinding,  the 

groan 

Of  the  ice-gods  in  pain!     Hear  the  moan 
Of  yon  ice  mountain  hurled 
Down  this  unfinished  world. 


"THE  FOUKTH"  IN  OKEGON.* 

Hail,  Independence  of  old  ways! 
Old  worlds!    The  West  declares  the  West, 
Her  storied  ways,  her  gloried  days, 
Because  the  West  deserveth  best. 
This  new,  true  land  of  noblest  deeds 
Has  rights,  has  sacred  rights  and  needs. 

Sing,  ye  who  may,  this  natal  day; 
Of  dauntless  thought,  of  men  of  might, 


In  lesser  lands  and  far  away. 
But  truth  is  truth  and  right  is  right. 
And,  oh,  to  sing  like  sounding  flood, 
These  boundless  boundaries  writ  in  blood! 


Three  thousand  miles  of  battle  deeds, 
Of  burning  Moscows,  Cossacks,  snows; 
Then  years  and  years  of  British  greed, 
Of  grasping  greed;  of  lurking  foes. 
I  say  no  story  ever  writ 
Or  said,  or  sung,  surpasses  it! 


And  who  has  honored  us,  and  who 
Has  bravely  dared  stand  up  and  say; 
"Give  ye  to  Caesar  Caesar's  due?" 
Unpaid,  unpensioned,  mute  and  gray, 
Some  few  survivors  of  the  brave, 
Still  hold  enough  land  for  a  grave. 


How  much  they  dared,  how  much  they 

won — 

Why,  o'er  your  banner  of  bright  stars, 
Their  star  should  be  the  blazing  sun 
Above  the  battle  star  of  Mars. 


*  This  poem  was  read,  18%,  near  the  scene  of  the  Whitman  massacre  at  the  old  Mission.  The  story  of  Ore 
gon—  Aure  il  Agua;  Hear  the  Waters— glowing  with  great  deeds,  drama,  tragedy,  surpassing  anything  in  the  history 
of  any  other  State,  east  or  west,  old  or  new.  When  the  paw  of  the  British  lion  reached  down  from  Canada  and  laid 
heavy  hand  on  Oregon,  these  pioneers  met  under  their  great  firs  and  proclaimed  to  the  world  that  they  were  not 
British  subjects,  but  American  citizens.  Marcus  P.  Whitman  mounted  horse  in  midwinter  and  set  out  alone  and 
rode  3,000  miles  to  lay  the  facts  before  the  President.  Yet  the  Government  never  lifted  a  hand  to  help  save  Oregon 
to  the  Nation.  So  far  from  that,  a  Senator  rose  in  his  place  and  literally  denounced  all  effort  in  that  direction, 
saying  "I  would  to  God  we  had  never  heard  of  that  country;  we  do  not  want  a  foot  of  ground  on  the  Pacific 
Ocean."  Webster  was  hardly  less  cruel  But  undaunted,  Whitman  gathered  up  hundreds  of  wagons  and  led  back 
to  Oregon;  the  first  that  ever  crossed  the  plains.  He  saved  Oregon,  but  lost  his  life  and  all  his  house.  Then  the 
pioneers,  to  avenge  the  massacre,  declared  war  on  their  own  account,  fought  it  to  a  finish  without  so  much  as  a 
single  man  or  gun  from  the  Government,  made  peace  on  their  own  account,  and  then  went  to  work  and  dug  their 
own  gold  from  their  own  ground,  and  with  their  own  hands  coined  it  and  paid  their  war  debts  and  from  the  first 
kept  their  paper  with  its  face  in  virgin  gold.  The  coins,  virgin  gold  with  a  sheaf  of  wheat  on  one  side,  showing  the 
richness  of  the  soil,  and  a  beaver  on  the  reverse,  typifying  the  industry  of  the  people.  Oregon  is  the  only  division 
of  this  republic  that  ever  coined  gold  under  authority  of  law.  And  even  in  later  Indian  wars  Oregon  was  always 
treated  meanly,  most  meanly.  More  than  once  every  man  and  boy  who  could  carry  a  gun  or  drive  a  team  was  in 
the  field.  My  father  and  his  three  sons,  aged  ten.  twelve,  and  fourteen,  were  all  at  one  time  teamsters  in  a  supply 
train.  And  the  Government  paid  for  services  and  supplies  but  tardily,  if  at  all.  The  meanness  is  incredible. 
There  are  millions  still  due  Oregon.  No,  I  am  not  angry,  or  selfish  either;  I  never  received  or  claimed  one  cent  fo 
services,  supplies  or  losses.  But  some  of  these  old  pioneers  are  in  need  now,  and  it  makes  a  man  blush  for  his 
country  to  see  them  so  meanly  treated  even  to  the  last. 


LATER    POEMS. 


245 


Here,  here  beside  brave  Whitman's  dust, 
Let  us  be  bravely,  frankly  just. 

The  mountains  from  the  first  were  so. 
The  mountains  from  the  first  were  free. 
They  ever  laid  the  tyrant  low, 
And  kept  the  boon  of  liberty. 
The  levels  of  the  earth  alone 
Endured  the  tyrant,  bore  the  throne. 


The  levels  of  the  earth  alone 
Bore  Sodoms,  Babylons  of  crime, 
And  all  sad  cities  overthrown 
Along  the  surging  surf  of  time. 
The  coward,  slave,  creeps  in  the  fen: 
God's  mountains  only  cradle  men. 


Aye,  wise  and  great  was  Washington, 
And  brave  the  men  of  Bunker  Hill; 
Most  brave  and  worthy  every  one, 
In  work  and  faith  and  fearless  will 
And  brave  endeavor  for  the  right, 
Until  yon  stars  burst  through  their  night. 

Aye,  wise  and  good  was  Washington. 
Yet  when  he  laid  his  sword  aside, 
The  bravest  deed  yet  done  was  done. 
And  when  in  stately  strength  and  pride 
He  took  the  plow  and  turned  the  mold 
He  wrote  God's  autograph  in  gold. 

He  wrought  the  fabled  fleece  of  gold 
In  priceless  victories  of  peace, 
With  plowshare  set  in  mother  mold; 
Then  gathering  the  golden  fleece 
About  his  manly,  martial  breast, 
This  farmer  laid  him  down  to  rest. 


0!  this  was  godlike!    And  yet,  who 
Of  all  men  gathered  here  to-day 
Has  not  drawn  sword  as  swift  as  true, 
Then  laid  its  reddened  edge  away, 


And  took  the  plow,  and  turned  the  mold 
To  sow  yon  sunny  steeps  with  gold. 


Aye,  this  true  valor!     Sing  who  will 
Of  battle  charge,  of  banners  borne 
Triumphant  up  the  blazing  hill 
On  battle's  front,  of  banners  torn, 
Of  horse  and  rider  torn  and  rent, 
Red  regiment  on  regiment. 

Yet  this  were  boy's  play  to  that  man 
Who,  far  out  yonder  lone  frontier, 
With  wife  and  babe  fought  in  the  van, 
Fought  on,  fought  on,  year  after  year. 
No  brave,  bright  flag  to  cheer  the  brave, 
No  farewell  gun  above  his  grave. 

I  say  such  silent  pioneers 
Who  here  set  plowshare  to  the  sun, 
And  silent  gave  their  sunless  years, 
Were  kings  of  heroes  every  one. 
No  Brandywine,  no  Waterloo 
E'er  knew  one  hero  half  so  true! 


A  nation's  honor  for  our  dead, 
God's  pity  for  the  stifled  pain; 
And  tears  as  ever  woman  shed, 
Sweet  woman's  tears  for  maimed  or  slain. 
But  man's  tears  for  the  mute,  unknown, 
Who  fights  alone,  who  falls  alone. 


The  very  bravest  of  the  brave, 
The  hero  of  all  lands  to  me  ? 
Far  up  yon  yellow  lifting  wave 
His  brave  ship  cleaves  the  golden  sea. 
And  gold  or  gain,  or  never  gain, 
No  argosy  sails  there  in  vain. 


And  who  the  coward?    Hessian  he, 
Who  turns  his  back  upon  the  field, 
Who  wears  the  slavish  livery 
Of  town  or  city,  sells  his  shield 


246 


LATER    POEMS. 


Of  honor,  as  his  ilk  of  old 

Sold  body,  soul,  for  British  gold. 

My  heroes,  comrades  of  the  field, 
Content  ye  here;  here  God  to  you, 
Whatever  fate  or  change  may  yield, 
Has  been  most  generous  and  true. 
Ton  everlasting  snow-peaks  stand 
His  sentinels  about  this  laud. 

Yon  bastions  of  God's  house  are  white 
As  heaven's  porch  with  heaven's  peace. 
Behold  His  portals  bathed  in  light! 
Behold  at  hand  the  golden  fleece! 
Behold  the  fatness  of  the  land 
On  every  hill,  on  every  hand ! 

Yon    bannered    snow-peaks  point  and 

plead 

God's  upward  path,  God's  upward  plan 
Of  peace,  God's  everlasting  creed 
Of  love  and  brotherhood  of  man. 
Thou  mantled  magistrates  in  white, 
Give  us  His  light!    Give  us  His  light! 


AN  ANSWEK. 

Well!  who  shall  lay  hand  on  my   harp 

but  me, 
Or  shall  chide  my  song  from  the  sounding 

trees? 

The  passionate  sun  and  the  resolute  sea, 
These  were  my  masters,  and  only  these. 

These  were  my  masters,  and  only  these, 
And  these  from  the  first  I  obey'd,  and  they 
Shall  command  me  now,  and  I  shall  obey 
As  a  dutiful  child  that  is  proud  to  please. 

There  never  were  measures  as  true  as 

the  sun, 

The  sea  hath  a  song  that  is  passingly 
sweet, 


And  yet  they  rep'eat,  and  repeat,  and  repeat, 
The  same  old  runes  though  the  new  years 
run. 


By  unnamed  rivers  of  the  Oregon  north, 
That  roll  dark-heaved  into  turbulent  hills, 
I  have  made  my  home The  wild 

heart  thrills 
With  memories  fierce,  and  a  world  storms 

forth. 


On  eminent  peaks  that  are  dark  with 
pine, 

And  mantled  in  shadows  and  voiced  in 
storms, 

I  have  made  my  camps:  majestic  gray 
forms 

Of  the  thunder-clouds,  they  were  compan 
ions  of  mine; 


And  face  set  to  face,  like  to  lords  aus 
tere, 

Have  we  talk'd,  red-tongued,  of  the  mys 
teries 

Of  the  circling  sun,  of  the  oracled  seas, 
While  ye  who  judged  me  had  mantled  in 
fear. 


Some  fragment  of  thought  in  the  unfin- 
ish'd  words; 

A  cry  of  fierce  freedom,  and  I  claim  no 
more. 

What  more  would  you  have  from  the  ten 
der  of  herds 

And  of  horse  on  an  ultimate  Oregon  shore? 


From  men  unto  God  go  forth,  as  alone, 
Where  the  dark  pines  talk  in  their  tones 

of  the  sea 

To  the  unseen  God  in  a  harmony 
Of    the  under  seas,    and  know  the  un 
known. 


Yon  bannered  snow-peaks  point  and  plead 
(jod's  upward  path.    God's  upward  plan 
Of  peace,  (rod's  everlasting  creed 
Of  love  and  brotherhood  of  man. 
Thou  mantled  magistrates  in  white, 
dive  us  His  light!     Give  us  His  light! 


Ntt,  and  repeat,  and  repeat, 
ues  though  the  new  years 


,ers  of  the  Oregon  north, 

^rk-heaved  into  turbulent  hills, 

home The  wild 

erce,  and  a  world  storms 


mantled  :;. 
us  His  light 


^ 

Well!  who  shall  lay  I  y   •» 

but  me, 
Or  shall  chide  my  song  front 

The  passionate  sun  and  the 
These  were  my  masters,  and 

These  were  my  masters,  ant; 
And  these  from  the  first  I 
Shall  command  me  now,  and  I  sb 
As  a  dutiful  child  that  is  proud  to 

There  never  were  measures  as  true 

the  Run, 

The  sea  hath  a  song  that  10  pawl*; 
sweet, 


aks  that  are  dark  with 

shadows  and  voiced  in 

v    camps:   majestic  gray 

loads,  they  were  compan- 

to 


the  mys- 

>eas, 

mantled  in 


nght  in  the  unfin- 
,  and  I  claim  no 
lave  from  the  ten- 
late Oregon  shore? 


50  forth,  as  alone, 
,ik  in  their 


harmony 

id  know  the  n 


LATER    POEMS. 


247 


'Mid  white  Sierras,  that  slope  to  the  sea, 
Lie   turbulent  lands.     Go  dwell  in   the 

skies, 

And  the  thundering  tongues  of  Yosemite 
Shall   persuade  you   to  silence,  and  you 

shall  be  wise. 


Yea,  men  may  deride,  and  the  thing  it  is 

well; 
Turn  well   and  aside  from  the  one  wild 

note 
To  the  song  of  the  bird  with  the  tame, 

sweet  throat; 
But  the  sea  sings  on  in  his  cave  and  shell. 

Let  the  white  moons  ride,  let  the  red 

stars  fall, 

O  great,  sweet  sea!    O  fearful  and  sweet! 
Thy  songs   they  repeat,  and   repeat,  and 

repeat : 
And  these,  I  say,  shall  survive  us  all. 


YOSEMITE. 

Sound!  sound!  sound! 
O  colossal  walls  and  crown'd 
In  one  eternal  thunder! 
Sound!  sound!  sound! 
O  ye  oceans  overhead, 
While  we  walk,  subdued  in  wonder, 
In  the  ferns  and  grasses,  under 
And  beside  the  swift  Merced! 


Fret!  fret!  fret! 

Streaming,  sounding  banners,  set 
On  the  giant  granite  castles 
In  the  clouds  and  in  the  snow! 
But  the  foe  he  comes  not  yet, — 
We  are  loyal,  valiant  vassals, 
And  we  touch  the  trailing  tassels 
Of  the  banners  far  below. 


Surge!  surge!  surge! 
From  the  white  Sierra's  verge, 
To  the  very  valley  blossom. 
Surge!  surge!  surge! 
Yet  the  song-bird  builds  a  home, 
And  the  mossy  branches  cross  them, 
And  the  tasselled  tree-tops  toss  them, 
In  the  clouds  of  falling  foam. 

Sweep!  sweep!  sweep! 
O  ye  heaven-born  and  deep, 
In  one  dread,  unbroken  chorus! 
We  may  wonder  or  may  weep,  — 
We  may  wait  on  God  before  usj 
We  may  shout  or  lift  a  hand, — 
We  may  bow  down  and  deplore  us, 
But  may  never  understand. 

Beat!  beat!  beat! 
We  advance,  but  would  retreat 
From  this  restless,  broken  breast 
Of  the  earth  in  a  convulsion. 
We  would  rest,  but  dare  not  rest, 
For  the  angel  of  expulsion 
From  this  Paradise  below 
Waves  us  onward  and we  go. 


DEAD  IN  THE  SIERRAS. 

His  footprints  have  failed  us, 
Where  berries  are  red, 
And  madronos  are  rankest, 
The  hunter  is  dead! 


The  grizzly  may  pass 
By  his  half-open  door; 
May  pass  and  repass 
On  his  path,  as  of  yore; 

The  panther  may  crouch 
In  the  leaves  on  his  limb; 
May  scream  and  may  scream,- 
It  is  nothing  to  him. 


248 


LATER    POEMS. 


Prone,  bearded,  and  breasted 
Like  columns  of  stone; 
And  tall  as  a  pine — 
As  a  pine  overthrown! 

His  camp-fires  gone, 
What  else  can  be  done 
Than  let  him  sleep  on 
Till  the  light  of  the  sun? 


Ay,  tombless!  what  of  it? 
Marble  is  dust, 
Cold  and  repellent; 
And  iron  is  rust. 


IN  PEKE  LA  CHAISE. 
I. 

An  avenue  of  tombs!    I  stand  before 
The  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Eloise. 
A  long,  a  dark  bent  line  of  cypress  trees 
Leads  past  and  on  to  other  shrines;  but 

o'er 
This  tomb  the  boughs  hang  darkest  and 

most  dense, 
Like  leaning  mourners  clad  in  black.   The 

sense 

Of  awe  oppresses  you.     This  solitude 
Means  more  than  common  sorrow.    Down 

the  wood 
Still  lovers  pass,   then  pause,  then  turn 

again, 
And  weep  like  silent,  unobtrusive  rain. 


ii. 

'Tis  but  a  simple,  antique  tomb,  that 

kneels 

As  one  that  weeps  above  the  broken  clay. 
'Tis  stained  with  storms;  'tis  eaten  well 

away, 
Nor  half  the  old— new  story  now  reveals 


Of  heart  that   held   beyond  the   tomb  to 

heart . 
But  oh,  it  tells  of  love!     And  that  true 

page 
Is  more  in  this   cold,   hard,    commercial 

age, 
When  love  is  calmly  counted  some  lost 

art, 

Than  all  man's  mighty  monuments  of  war 
Or  archives  vast  of  art  and  science  are. 


ill. 

Here  poets  pause  and  dream  a  listless 

hour; 
Here   silly  pilgrims  stoop  and  kiss  the 

clay, 
Here  sweetest  maidens  leave  a  cross  or 

flower, 

While  vandals  bear  the  tomb  in  bits  away. 
The  ancient  stone  is  scarred  with  name 

and  scrawl 

Of  many  tender  fools.     But  over  all, 
And  high  above  all  other  scrawls,  is  writ 
One  simple  thing;  most  touching  and  most 

fit. 

Some  pitying  soul  has  tiptoed  high  above, 
And  with  a  nail  has  scrawled  but  this: 

"  O  Love! " 

IV. 

O  Love !....!  turn;  I  climb  the  hill  of 

tombs 
Where  sleeps  the  "bravest  of  the  brave," 

below, 
His   bed   of   scarlet    blooms    in   zone   of 

snow — 
No  cross,  nor  sign,  save  this  red  bed  of 

blooms. 

I  see  grand  tombs  to  France's  lesser  dead,  — 
Colossal  steeds,  white  pyramids,  still  red 
At  base  with  blood,  still  torn   with  shot 

and  shell, 

To  testify  that  here  the  Commune  fell; 
And  yet  I  turn  once  more  from  all  of  these, 
And  stand  before  the  tomb  of  Eloise. 


LATER    POEMS. 


249 


ROME. 
i. 

Some  leveled  hills,  a  wall,  a  dome 
That  lords  its  gilded  arch  and  lies, 
While  at  its  base  a  beggar  cries 
For  bread,  and  this— and  that  is  Rome. 


II. 

Yet  Rome  is  Rome,  and  Rome  she  must 
And  shall  remain  beside  her  gates, 
And  tribute  take  of  Kings  and  States, 
Until  the  stars  have  fallen  to  dust. 


in. 

Yea,  Time  on  yon  Campagnan  plain 
Has  pitched  in  siege  his  battle-tents; 
And  round  about  her  battlements 
Has  marched  and  trumpeted  in  vain. 

IV. 

These  skies  are  Rome!     The  very  loam 
Lifts  up  and  speaks  in  Roman  pride; 
And  Time,  outfaced  and  still  defied, 
Sits  by  and  wags  his  beard  at  Rome. 


"  POVERIS!     POVERIS! " 
"  Feed  my  sheep  " 

Come,  let  us  ponder;  it  is  fit — 
Born  of  the  poor,  born  to  the  poor. 
The  poor  of  purse,  the  poor  of  wit, 
Were  first  to  find  God's  opened  door — 
Were  first  to  climb  the  ladder  round  by 

round 
That   fell  from  heaven's  door  nnto    the 

ground. 

God's  poor  came  first,  the  very  first! 
God's  poor  were  first  to  see,  to  hear, 


To  feel  the  light  of  heaven  burst 
Full  on  their  faces.     Far  or  near, 
His  poor  were  first  to  follow,  first  to  fall! 
What  if  at  last  his  poor  stand  forth   the 
first  of  all? 


AMERICA  TO  AMERICANS. 

Behold  America!  my  land, 
Unarmed,  unharmed,  whilst  Europe  groans 
With  weight  of  arms  on  either  hand, 
And  hears  a  starving  woman's  moans. 

My  land  that  feeds,  that  leads  the  world, 
Where  dwells  more  strength  in  one  small 

star 

Of  her  brave,  beauteous  flag  unfurled 
Than  all  their  armaments  of  war. 


My  land,    where    man    first  knew  his 

strength— 

His  strength  of  right,  his  fearful  might; 
His  fearful,  tawny,  tiger-length 
Of  arm  in  battle  for  the  right. 

My  land  that  shook  from  off  her  shores 
A  thousand  British  battle  ships — 
As  when  some  lion  wakes  and  roars 
And  walks  the  world  and  licks  his  lips! 

My  land  that  sows  the  world  with  gold, 
That    taught    old    worlds    in    lightning 

tongue, 

That  leads  the  old,  that  feeds  the  old, 
And  yet  so  young,  so  very  young! 

My  land  that  reaches  kindly,  fair, 
For  cactus  spear,  for  maple  leaf, 
As  peaceful,  loving  harvester 
Would  gather  sheaf  to  golden  sheaf. 

Come  maple  leaf,  come  stalwart  man 
Of  stout  and  sterling  Canada; 


250 


LATER    POEMS. 


Come  cactus  spear,  come  Darien — 
To-morrow,  if  not  yet  to-day. 


One  flag  for  all,  or  far  or  near, 
One  faith  for  all  whate'er  befall— 
Or  maple  leaf,  or  cactus  spear, 
One  star-built  banner,  built  for  all. 


FATHER  DAMIEN  OF  HAWAII. 

The  best  of  all  heroes  that  ever  may  be, 
The  best  and  the  bravest  in  peace  or  in 

war 

Since  that  lorn  sad  night  in  Gethseniane — 
Horns  of  the  moon   or    the   five-horned 

star? 
Why,    merely  a  Belgian   monk,   and  the 

least, 
The    lowliest  —  merely    a    peasant-born 

priest. 


And  how  did  he  fight  ?    And  where  did 

he  fall  ? 
With  what  did  he  conquer  in  the  name  of 

God? 
The  cross!     And  he  conquered  more  souls 

than  all 

Famed  captains  that  ever  fought  fire-shod. 
Now,    lord   of    the    sapphire-set   sea  and 

skies, 
Far  tinder  his   Southern   gold  Cross   he 

lies. 


Far  under  the  fire-sown  path  of  the  sun 
He  sleeps  with  his  lepers;  but  a  world  is 

his! 
His  great  seas  chorus  and  his  warm  tides 

run 

To  dulcet  and  liquid  soft  cadences. 
And,  glories  to  come  or  great  deeds  gone, 
I'd  rather  be  he  than  Napoleon. 


He  rests  with  his  lepers,  for  whom  he 

died; 

The  lorn  outcasts  in  their  cooped  up  isle, 
While  Slander  purses  her  lips  in  pride 
And  proud   men   gather  their  robes  and 

smile. 

They  mock  at  his  deeds  in  their  daily  talk, 
Deriding  his  work   in  their  Christian  ( ? ) 

walk. 


But  the  great  wide,  honest,  the  wise,  big 

world; 

Or  sapphire  splendors  or  midnight  sun, 
It  is  asking  the  while  that  proud  lips  are 

curled, 

Why  do  not  ye  as  that  monk  hath  done? 
Why  do  not  ye,  if  so  braver  than  he, 
Some  one  brave  deed  that  the  world  might 

see? 


AT  OUR  GOLDEN  GATE. 

At  our  gate  he  groaneth,  groaneth, 
Chafes  as  chained,  and  chafes  all  day; 
As  leashed  greyhound  moaneth,  moaneth, 
When  the  master  keeps  away. 
Men  have  seen  him  steal  in  lowly, 
Lick  the  island's  feet  and  face, 
Lift  a  cold  wet  nose  up  slowly, 
Then  turn  empty  to  his  place: 
En>pty,  idle,  hungered,  waiting 
For  some  hero,  dauntless-souled, 
Glory-loving,  pleasure-hating, 
Minted  in  God's  ancient  mold. 


What  ship  yonder  stealing,  stealing, 
Pirate-like,  as  if  ashamed  ? 
Black  men,  brown  men,  red,  revealing- 
Not  one  white  man  to  be  named! 
What  flag  yonder,  proud,  defiant, 
Topmast,  saucy,  and  sea  blown? 
Tall  ships  lordly  and  reliant — 
All  flags  yonder  save  our  own! 
Surged  atop  yon  half-world  water 


LATER    POEMS. 


251 


Once  a  tuneful  tall  ship  ran; 

Ran  the  storm  king,  too,  and  caught  her, 

Caught  and  laughed  as  laughs  a  man: 

Laughed  and  held  her,  and  so  holden, 
Holden  high,  foam-crest  and  free 
As  famed  harper,  hoar  and  olden, 
Held  his  great  harp  on  his  knee. 
Then  his  fingers  wildly  flinging 
Through  chords,  ropes — such  symphony 
•As  if  some  wild  Wagner  singing — 
Some  wild  Wagner  of  the  sea! 
Sang  he  of  such  poor  cowed  weaklings, 
Cowed,  weak  landsmen  such  as  we. 
While  ten  thousand  storied  sea  kings 
Foam-white,  storm-blown,  sat  the  sea. 

Oh,  for  England's  old  sea  thunder! 
Oh,  for  England's  bold  sea  men, 
When  we  banged  her  over,  under 
And  she  banged  us  back  again! 
Better  old  time  strife  and  stresses, 
Cloud  top't  towers,  walls,  distrust; 
Better  wars  than  lazinesses, 
Better  loot  than  wine  and  lust! 
Give  us  seas?     Why,  we  have  oceans! 
Give  us  manhood,  sea  men,  men! 
Give  us  deeds,  loves,  hates,  emotions! 
Else  give  back  these  seas  again. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  DOVE.* 

Come,  listen  O  Love  to  the  voice  of  the 

dove, 

Come,  hearken  and  hear  him  say 
There   are  many  To-morrows,  my  Love, 

my  Love, 
There  is  only  one  To-day. 


And  all  day  long  you  can  hear  him  say 
This  day  in  purple  is  rolled 
And  the  baby  stars  of  the  milkyway 
They  are  cradled  in  cradles  of  gold. 

Now  what  is  thy  secret  serene  gray  dove 

Of  singing  so  sweetly  alway? 

"There  are  many  To-morrows,  my  Love, 

my  Love, 
There  is  only  one  To-day." 


WASHINGTON  BY  THE  DELAWAEE. 

The  snow  was  red  with  patriot  blood, 
The  proud  foe  tracked  the  blood-red  snow. 
The  flying  patriots  crossed  the  flood 
A  tattered,  shattered  band  of  woe. 
Forlorn  each  barefoot  hero  stood, 
With  bare  head  bended  low. 

"Let  us   cross  back!    Death  waits  us 

here: 

Kecross  or  die!"  the  chieftain  said. 
A  famished  soldier  dropped  a  tear — 
A  tear  that  froze  as  it  was  shed: 
For  oh,  his  starving  babes  were  dear — 
They  had  but  this  for  bread! 

A  captain  spake:  "  It  cannot  be! 
These  bleeding    men,    why,   what    could 

they? 

'Twould  be  as  snowflakes  in  a  sea!" 
The  worn  chief  did  not  heed  or  say. 
He  set  his  firm  lips  silently, 
Then  turned  aside  to  pray. 

And  as  he  kneeled  and  prayed  to  God, 
God's  finger  spun  the  stars  in  space; 


*  Taken  from  "The  Building  of  the  Cicy  Beautiful,"  by  permission  of  the  publishers,  Stone  and  Kimball, 
Chicago  and  Cambridge.  I  can  commend  this  little  book  to  my  lovers.  It  was  first  written  in  verse  as  The  Life  of 
Christ.  But  when  Sir  Edwin  Arnold's  "  Light  of  the  World  "  appeared  I  saw  that  he,  by  help  of  his  knowledge  of 
the  Orient,  had  gone  deeper  than  I  could,  so  I  destroyed  all  but  about  twenty  fragments,  heads  of  chapters,  and 
wrote  the  rest  of  the  book  in  prose.  It  is,  in  the  main,  the  Story  of  the  Hights. 


252 


LATER    POEMS. 


He  spread  his  banner  blue  and  broad, 
He  dashed  the  dead  sun's  stripes  in  place, 
Till  war  walked  heaven  fire  shod 
And  lit  the  chieftain's  face: 


Till  every  soldier's  heart  was  stirred, 
Till  every  sword  shook  in  its  sheath — 
"  Up!  up!  Face  back.  But  not  one  word!" 
God's  flag  above;  the  ice  beneath — 
They  crossed  so  still,  they  only  heard 
The  icebergs  grind  their  teeth! 


Ho!  Hessians,  hirelings  at  meat 
While  praying  patriots  hunger  so! 
Then,  bang!  Boom!  Bang!  Death  and 

defeat! 

And  blood?    Ay,  blood  upon  the  snow! 
Yet  not  the  blood  of  patriotic  feet, 
But  heart's  blood  of  the  foe! 


O  ye  who  hunger  and  despair! 
O  ye  who  perish  for  the  sun, 
Look  up  and  dare,  for  God  is  there; 
And  man  can  do  what  man  has  done! 
Think,  think  of  darkling  Delaware! 
Think,  think  of  Washington! 


FOB  THOSE  WHO  FAIL.* 

"All  honor  to  him  who  shall  win  the 

prize," 

The  world  has  cried  for  a  thousand  years; 
But  to  him  who  tries,  and  who  fails  and 

dies, 
I  give  great  honor  and  glory  and  tears : 


Give  glory  and  honor  and  pitiful  tears 
To  all  who  fail  in  their  deeds  sublime; 
Their  ghosts  are  many  in  the  van  of  years, 


They  were  born  with  Time,  in  advance  of 
Time. 


Oh,  great  is  the  hero  who  wins  a  name, 
But  greater  many  and  many  a  time 
Some  pale-faced  fellow  who  dies  in  shame, 
And  lets  God  finish  the  thought  sublime. 


And  great  is  the  man  with  a  sword  un 
drawn, 

And  good  is  the  man  who  refrains  from 
wine; 

But  the  man  who  fails  and  yet  still  fights 
on, 

Lo,  he  is  the  twin-born  brother  of  mine. 


THE  LIGHT  OF  CHRIST'S  FACE. 

Behold  how  glorious!     Behold 
The  light  of  Christ's  face;  and  such  light! 
The  Moslem,  Buddhist,  as  of  old, 
Gropes  helpless  on  in  hopeless  night. 
But  lo!  where  Christ  comes,  crowned  with 

flame, 

Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name, 
Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name. 
But  lo!  where  Christ  comes  crowned  with 

flame, 

Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name, 
Ten  thousand  triumphs  in  Christ's  name. 


Elijah's  chariot  of  fire 
Chained  lightnings  harnessed  to  his  car! 
Jove's  thunders  bridled  by  a  wire — 
Call  unto  nations  "  here  we  are!" 
Lo!  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light, 
Save  where  the  Paynim  walks  in  night, 
Lo,  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light, 
Lo,  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light, 


*From  "Memorie  and  Rime,"  by  permission  of  Funk  &  Wagnalls,  publishers  of  the  Standard  Dictionary  aud 
the  Standard  Library,  of  which  the  above  book  is  one. 


'  LATER    POEMS. 


253 


Save  where  the  Paynim  walks  in  night, 
Lo,  all  the  world  one  sea  of  light. 


What    more?    What    sermons    like  to 

these; 

This  light  of  Christ's  face,  power,  speed, 
In  these  full  rounded  centuries, 
To  prove  the  Christ,  the  Christ  in  deed  ? 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light, 
And  anti-Christ  is  death  and  night, 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light. 
Yea,  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light, 
And  anti-Christ  is  death  and  night, 
Yea  Christ  is  life,  and  Christ  is  light. 


*  «:< 


£ 

X, 


Behind  him  lay  the  gray  Azores,    '-"' 
Behind |the  Gates  of  Hercules; 
Before  him  not  the  ghost  of  shores;  C»~ 
Before  him  only  shoreless  seas.\  b 
Tiie  good  mate  said:  "Now  must  we  pray, 
For  lo!  the  very  stars  are^gpne.  (\,  /  ^ 
Brave  Adm^r'l,  sp^ak;  what^s-hall/I  say?'c?:. 
"Why,  say:  '  Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!"£t 

XI  /•  x^         X 

"  My  men  grow  mutinous  day  by  day;}. 

My  men  grow  ghastly  wan  and  weak."V4 
The  stout  md'te  thought  of  home;  a  spray 
Of  salt  wave  washed  his  swarthy  cheek.} 
"  What  shall  I  say,  brave  Adm'r'l,  say,  ^ 
If  we  sight  naught  but  seas  at  dawn?"c, 
"  Why,  you  shall  say  at  break  of  day:  V 
'  Sail  on !  sail  on !  sail  on !  and  on ! '  "  £- 


They  sailed  and  sailed,  as  winds  might 

blow,  x 

Until  at  last  the  blanched  mate  said:    • 
"  Why,  now  not  even  God  would  know  ' 
Should  I  and  all  my  men  fall  dead.  fc» 
These  very  winds  forget  their  way, 
For  God  from  these  dread  seas  is  gone. 


Now    speak,    brave  Adm'r'l; 

say " 

He  said:  "  Sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!' 


and  t 

di 


They  sailed.     They  sailed.  Then  spake 

the  mate: 

"  This  mad  sea  shows  his  teeth  to-night. ' 
He  curls  his  lip,  he  lies  in  wait,  Ck_ 
With  lifted  teeth,  as  if  to  bite!    b 
Brave  Adm'r'l,  say  but  one  good  word:  ' 
What  shall  we  do  when  hope  is  gone?"    ! 
The  words  leapt  like  a  leaping  sword:  £ 
"  Sail  on!  sail  on!  sail  on!  and  on!" 


Then,  pale  and  worn,  he  kept  his  deck, 
And  peered  through  darkness.     Ah,  that 

night 

Of  all  dark  nights!     And  then  a  speck — 
A  light!    Alight!     Alight!     Alight!    ; 
It  grew,  a  starlit  flag  unfurled! 
It  grew  to  be  Time's  burst  of  dawn. 
He  gained  a  world;  he  gave  that  world  C 
Its  grandest  lesson:  "On!  sail  on!" 


CUBA  LIBRE. 

Comes  a  cry  from  Cuban  water — 
From  the  warm,  dusk  Antilles — 
From  the  lost  Atlanta's  daughter, 
Drowned  in  blood  as  drowned  in  seas; 
Comes  a  cry  of  purpled  anguish — 
See  her  struggles,  hear  her  cries! 
Shall  she  live,  or  shall  she  languish? 
Shall  she  sink,  or  shall  she  rise  ? 


She  shall  rise,  by  all  that's  holy! 
She  shall  live  and  she  shall  last; 
Rise  as  we,  when  crushed  and  lowly 
From  the  blackness  of  the  past. 
Bid  her  strike!     Lo,  it  is  written 
Blood  for  blood  and  life  for  life. 
Bid  her  smite,  as  she  is  smitten; 
Stars  and  stripes  were  born  of  strife. 


254 


LATER    POEMS. 


Once  we  flashed  her  lights  of  freedom, 
Lights  that  dazzled  her  dark  eyes 
Till  she  could  but  yearning  heed  them, 
Keach  her  hands  and  try  to  rise. 
Then    they    stabbed    her,    choked    her, 

drowned  her, 

Till  we  scarce  could  hear  a  note. 
Ah!  these  rusting  chains  that  bound  her! 
Oh!  these  robbers  at  her  throat! 


And  the  kind  who  forged  these  fetters  ? 
Ask  five  hundred  years  for  news. 
Stake  and  thumbscrew  for  their  betters  ? 
Inquisitions!     Banished  Jews! 
Chains  and  slavery!     What  reminder 
Of  one  red  man  in  that  land? 
Why,  these  very  chains  that  bind  her 
Bound  Columbus,  foot  and  hand! 


She  shall  rise  as  rose  Columbus, 
From  his  chains,  from  shame  and  wrong — 
Rise  as  Morning,  matchless,  wondrous — 
Eise  as  some  rich  morning  song — 
Eise  a  ringing  song  and  story, 
Valor,  Love  personified. 
Stars  and  stripes  espouse  her  glory, 
Love  and  Liberty  allied. 


FINALE. 

When  ye  have  conned  the  hundredth 

time 

My  sins  and  sagely  magnified 
Your  ofttold  fictions  into  crimes 
Dark  planned,  and  so  turned  all  aside, 
Why  then  have  done,  I  beg,  I  pray. 
These  shadows  ye  have  fashioned  lie 
So  heavily  along  my  way. 
And  I  would  fain  have  light:     And  I 


Would   fain   have  love:    Have  love  one 

little  hour 
Ere  God   has  plucked  my  day,  a  tearful 

flower. 

But  when  the  cloud-draped  day  is  done, 
Now  happily  not  long  for  me, 
For  lo!     I  see  no  more  the  sun, 
Say  this,  if  say  ye  must,  and  see 
That  ye  mouth  not  the  simple  truth: 
"  From  first  to  last  this  man  had  naught 
Of  us  but  insolence.     From  youth 
Eight  on,  alone  he  silent  wrought 
Nor  answered   us.     And  yet  from  us  he 

knew 
But    thrust    of    lance    that    thrust    him 

through  and  through." 

Ah  me!     I  mind  me  long  agone, 
Once  on  a  savage  snow-bound  height 
We  pigmies  pierced  a  king.     Upon 
His  bare  and  upreared  breast  till  night 
We  rained  red  arrows  and  we  rained 
Hot  lead.     Then  up  the  steep  and  slow 
He  passed;  yet  ever  still  disdained 
To  strike,  or  even  look  below. 
We  found   him,    high  above  the   clouds 

next  morn 
And    dead,    in  all    his    silent,    splendid 

scorn. 

So  leave  me,  as  the  edge  of  night 
Comes  on  a  little  time  to  pass, 
Or  pray.     For  steep  the  stony  height 
And  torn  by  storm,  and  bare  of  grass 
Or  blossom.     And  when  I  lie  dead 
Oh,  do  not  drag  me  down  once  more. 
For  Jesus'  sake  let  my  poor  head 
Lie  pillowed  with  these  stones.     My  store 
Of  wealth  is  these.     I  earned  them.    Let 

me  keep 
Still  on  alone,  on  mine  own  star-lit  steep. 


My  books  were  written  largely  for  magazines  and  papers  while  I  kept  roaming  about  the  world  when 
and  where  I  would,  writing  verse  or  prose  as  I  pleased  or  could  place  it.  And  now  let  me  note  an 
error.  A  poet  should  not  live  by  prose.  Only  a  Scott  cam  do  that.  Better  be  a  day  laborer,  anything  in 
reason,  than  write  for  mere  money.  Only  of  late,  since  I  leaned  on  my  hoe  and  plow  for  bread  rather  than  on 


LATER    POEMS.  255 


prose,  have  I  felt  my  full  strength  in  verse.  Much  of  my  prose  was  patched  together,  making  the  book  and 
play  of  "The  Danites,"  the  book  and  play  of  '"49,"  and  also  the  books,  "Shadows  of  Shasta "  and  " The  One 
Fair  Woman,  "all  unsatisfactory.  I  had  early  written  a  descriptive  personal  novel,  the  scenes  laid  in  the  region 
of  Mount  Shasta,  and  failing  to  dispose  of  it  Prentice  Mulford,  who  had  joined  me  in  London  about  the  time 
of  the  Modoc  war,  proposed  that  we  make  it  still  more  personal  and  publish  it  as  "  My  Life  Among  the  Mo- 
docs."  He  was  led  to  this  by  the  correspondents  at  the  seat  of  war  making  the  startling  discovery  that  the 
poem,  "  The  Tall  Alcalde,"  was  my  own  life.  He  had  little  more  to  do  than  take  graphic  accounts,  conceived 
when  war  news  was  scarce,  and  sandwich  tnem  in  through  the  novel  and  weld  them  fast.  He  did  all  the 
work,  reading  me  now  and  then,  for  my  eyes  had  almost  quite  failed  me;  and  it  proved  to  be  popular  both 
abroad  and  at  home.  Bently,  publisher  to  the  Queen,  brought  it  out  and  it  still  refuses  to  die,  although  I  have  at 
times  cut  and  slashed  it  terribly.  It  owes  its  long  life  to  Mulford;  and  the  lesson  to  me  is  that  no  poet  can 
write  ordinary  prose  without  writing  very  ordinary  verse. 

Why  have  we  so  few  true  poets  and  fearless  prophets  to  lead  the  people  upward  to-day?  Because  they  gather 
money,  and  gather  money,  and  gather  money  with  the  right  hand,  and  at  the  same  time  try  to  write  poetry  with 
the  left  hand. 

It  is  more  important  to  the  Nation,  and  quite  as  easy  if  rightly  directed,  to  be  a  mental  than  a  physical  athlete. 
In  the  first  place,  then,  be  well  rested  and  well  fed;  rested  in  mind  as  the  athlete  is  rested  in  body  for  his  work, 
fed  in  mind  as  the  borer  is  fed  in  body.  Repose  of  mind  is  power.  Yet  has  the  foolish  world  ever  stoned  its 
prophets;  therefore  it  is  that  the  poets  ever  have,  ever  must,  and  ever  will,  if  true  poets  go  apart.  For  only  with 
God,  away  from  the  marts,  is  that  repose  which  of  itself  is  power  to  be  possessed.  But,  mark  you,  not  as  a  hermit, 
not  as  a  hater,  but  as  a  lover  of  all  men,  all  things,  must  you  go  to  mount  your  throne  and  rule  your  own  beautiful 
world. 

Having  peace,  repose  of  mind,  rest  the  body,  keeping  in  mind  the  careful  training  of  the  physical  athlete 
continuously.  As  to  the  position  of  the  body  when  at  work,  that  is  as  you  please.  I  generally  found  George  Eliot 
doubled  up  on  a  sofa,  her  legs  up  under  her,  heaps  of  robes,  and  a  pad  on  her  lap.  I  read  that  Mrs.  Browning 
always  wrote  in  bed.  I  know  that  Mrs.  Wagner— Madge  Morris— does;  while  Miss  Coolbrith  writes,  she  tells  me,  on 
her  feet,  going  along  about  her  affairs  till  her  poem  is  complete,  and  then  writing  it  down  exactly  as  she  has  framed 
it  in  her  mind.  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford  writes  on  a  pad  in  her  lap  in  the  parlor,  under  the  trees  with  a  party, 
takes  part  in  the  talk  as  she  writes,  and  is  generally  the  brightest  of  the  company.  Lady  Hardy  told  me  she  could 
only  write  with  her  face  to  the  blank  wall,  while  Mrs.  Braddon,  the  prolific,  showed  me  her  desk  bowered  in  her 
Richmond  Hill  garden,  where  she  wrote  to  the  song  of  birds  about  forty  popular  novels.  I  find  that  men  differ 
quite  as  widely  in  their  preference  of  place  and  attitude.  But  it  is  to  be  noted  that  each  person  has  a  preference; 
and  this  preference  must  be  respected  to  have  your  best  results. 

For  instance,  Anthony  Trollope,  a  ponderous  man,  always  wrote  standing  straight  as  a  post  to  a  high  desk, 
his  watch  before  him,  beginning  always  at  a  certain  minute  and  ending  exactly  the  same.  That  watch  would  have 
landed  me  in  a  madhouse.  Whittier  and  Longfellow  wrote  on  their  desks  with  everything  at  hand  and  in  order, 
and  had  perfect  quiet.  I  am  told  that  the  other  great  scribes  of  New  England  were  all  of  the  same  discipline. 
Bret  Harte  is  equally  exacting  and  orderly.  He  once  told  me  that  his  first  line  was  always  a  cigar,  and  sometimes 
two  cigars.  I  reckon  Walt  Whitman  could  write  anywhere.  I  once  was  with  him  on  top  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  omni 
bus,  above  a  sea  of  people,  when  he  began  writing  on  the  edge  of  a  newspaper,  and  he  kept  it  up  for  half  an  hour, 
although  his  elbow  was  almost  continuously  tangled  up  with  that  of  the  driver. 

As  for  myself,  I  can  write  but  in  one  place  and  in  one  position,  and  but  at  one  certain  time.  Yet  this  may 
be  all  ft  habit.  At  the  same  time  I  must  respect  this  habit  or  preference  to  do  my  work  as  duty  demands.  In  the 
first  place,  then,  a  good  dinner  at  my  mother's  table,  with  all  my  house,  and  maybe  some  friends  about  me,  no 
newspapers  on  the  place,  no  mail  maybe  for  a  week  if  the  work  to  be  done  is  important— and  all  work  should  be- 
then  to  bed  with  the  birds  and  a  full  night's  rest,  my  door  wide  open;  my  coffee  in  bed  at  daylight,  then  a  cigar,  if 
I  can  find  one,  and  as  it  burns  to  the  end  I  begin  and  write  till  about  twelve,  when  I  dress,  breakfast,  and  then 
I  spend  the  rest  of  the  day  in  the  fields  till  dinner.  Let  me  explain  that,  years  ago,  I  went  to  the  French  Hospital, 
Pincean  Hill,  Rome,  with  the  late  Senator  Miller  of  California,  who  had  a  bullet  in  an  eye  from  Stone's  River,  and 
as  I  was  limping  badly  from  an  old  arrow  hurt,  a  famous  surgeon  there  kindly  treated  me.  But  he  kept  me  lashed 
down  so  long  that  I  had  to  work  on  my  back;  and  have  preferred  that  position  ever  since.  This  much  for  habit;  yet 
I  really  believe  with  George  Eliot,  that  "there  is  nothing  like  keeping  the  back  and  legs  warm  while  at  work."  As 
for  stimulants,  don't  think  of  such  things,  not  even  to  start  or  conceive  a  thought.  My  own  best  stimulant  or 
conception  of  work  with  life  and  action  in  it  is  a  strong  house,  room,  woods,  the  wild,  rolling  tills.  In  truth,  were 
you  to  take  all  out  that  has  come  to  me  in  this  way,  there  would  be  little  left  worth  reading.  Yet  to  tie  things  down 
in  black  and  white,  as  said  before,  take  absolute  repose. 


256 


LATER    POEMS. 


These  later  poems,  so  far  as  written  at  that  time,  were  compiled  and  revised  during  my  first  years  at  my 
mountain  home  overlooking  San  Francisco  Bay,  put  in  book  form  in  Chicago,  1890,  and  dedicated  to  my  daughter. 


JUANITA. 

You  will  come  my  bird,  Bonita  ? 
Come!    For  I  by  steep  and  stone 
Have  built  such  nest  for  you,  Juanita, 
As  not  eagle  bird  hath  known. 


Hugged!    Bugged  as  Parnassus! 
Rude,  as  all  roads  I  have  trod— 
Yet  are  steeps  and  stone-strewn  passes 
Smooth  o'er  head,  and  nearest  God. 


Here  black  thunders  of  my  canon 
Shake  its  walls  in  Titan  wars! 
Here  white  sea-born  clouds  companion 
With  such  peaks  as  know  the  stars! 


Here  madron  a,  manzanita— 
Here  the  snarling  chaparral 
House  and  hang  o'er  steeps,  Juauita, 
Where  the  gaunt  wolf  loved  to  dwell! 


Dear,  I  took  these  trackless  masses 
Fresh  from  Him  who  fashioned  them; 
Wrought  in  rock,  and  hewed  fair  passes, 
Flower  set,  as  sets  a  gem. 


Aye,  I  built  in  woe.    God  willed  it; 
Woe  that  passeth  ghosts  of  guilt; 


Yet  I  built  as  His  birds  builded— 
Builded,  singing  as  I  built. 

All  is  finished!    Roads  of  flowers 
Wait  your  loyal  little  feet. 
All  completed?    Nay,  the  hours 
Till  you  come  are  incomplete. 

Steep  below  me  lies  the  valley, 
Deep  below  me  lies  the  town, 
Where  great  sea-ships  ride  and  rally. 
And  the  world  walks  up  and  down. 


O,  the  sea  of  lights  far  streaming 
When  the  thousand  flags  are  furled— 
When  the  gleaming  bay  lies  dreaming 
As  it  duplicates  the  world! 


You  will  come  my  dearest,  truest? 
Come  my  sovereign  queen  of  ten; 
My  blue  skies  will  then  be  bluest; 
My  white  rose  be  whitest  then: 


Then  the  song!    Ah,  then  the  saber 
Flashing  up  the  walls  of  night! 
Hate  of  wrong  and  love  of  neighbor-' 
Rhymes  of  battle  for  the  Right! 
The  Bights,  Cal. 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL.  257 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUL. 

0  thou  To-morrow  !    Mystery  ! 
O  day  that  ever  runs  before  ! 
What  hast  thine  hidden  hand  in  store 
For  mine,  To-morrow,  and  for  me  ? 
0  thou  To-morrow  !  what  hast  thou 
In  store  to  make  me  bear  the  Now? 

0  day  in  which  we  shall  forget 
The  tangled  troubles  of  to-day  ! 
O  day  that  laughs  at  duns,  at  debt! 
O  day  of  promises  to  pay  ! 
O  shelter  from  all  present  storm  ! 
O  day  in  which  we  shall  reform  ! 

O  days  of  all  days  to  reform  ! 
Convenient  day  of  promises  ! 
Hold  back  the  shadow  of  the  storm. 
Let  not  thy  mystery  be  less, 
O  bless' d  To-morrow  !  chief est  friend, 
But  lead  us  blindfold  to  the  end. 

THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 

And  full  these  truths  eternal 
O'er  the  yearning  spirit  steal, 
That  the  real  is  the  ideal, 
And  the  ideal  is  the  real. 


She  was  damn'd    with    the  dower    of 

beauty,  she 

Had  gold  in  shower  by  shoulder  and  brow. 
Her  feet!— why,  her  two  blessed  feet,  were 

so  small, 
They  could    nest    in   this    hand.      How 

queenly,  how  tall, 
How  gracious,  how  grand!     She  was  all 

to  me, — 
My  present,  my  past,  my  eternity! 


She  but  lives  in  my  dreams.     I  behold 

her  now 
By  shoreless  white  waters  that  flow'd  like 


a  sea 
At  her  feet  where  I  sat;  her  lips  push'd 

out 
In  brave,  warm  welcome  of  dimple  and 

pout! 

'Twas  aeons  agone.  By  that  river  that  ran 
All  fathomless,  echoless,  limitless,  on, 


258 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 


And  shoreless,  and  peopled  with  never  a 

man, 
We  met,  soul  to  soul No  land;  yet  I 

think 
There  were  willows  and  lilies  that  lean'd 

to  drink. 
The  stars  they  were  seal'd  and  the  moons 

were  gone. 
The  wide  shining  circles  that  girdled  that 

world, 

They  were  distant  and  dim.  And  an  in 
cense  curl'd 

In  vapory  folds  from  that  river  that  ran 
All  shoreless,   with  never  the  presence  of 

man. 

How  sensuous  the  night;  how  soft  was 

the  sound 
Of    her  voice  on  the  night!     How  warm 

was  her  breath 
In  that  world  that  had  never  yet  tasted  of 

death 
Or  forbidden  sweet  fruit!.... In  that  far 

profound. 

We  were  camped  on  the  edges  of  god- 
land.  We 

Were  the  people  of  Saturn.  The  watery 
fields, 

The  wide-wing'd,  dolorous  birds  of  the 
sea, 

They  acknowledged  but  us.  Our  brave 
battle  shields 

Were  my  naked  white  palms;  our  food  it 
was  love. 

Our  roof  was  the  fresco  of  gold  belts 
above. 


How  turn'd  she  to  me  where  that  wide 

river  ran, 
With   its  lilies  and   willows   and   watery 

reeds, 
And    heeded    as    only    your     true    love 

heeds!. . . . 


How  tender  she  was,  and  how  timid  she 

was! 
But  a  black,  hoofed  beast,  with  the  head  of 

a  man, 
Stole  down  where  she  sat  at  my  side,  and 

began 
To  puff  his  tan  cheeks,  then  to  play,  then 

to  pause, 
With  his  double-reed  pipe;   then  to  play 

and  to  play 

As  never  played  man  since  the  world  be 
gan, 
And  never   shall   play  till  the    judgment 

day. 

How  he  puffd!   how  he  play'd!    Then 

down  the  dim  shore, 
This  half -devil  man,  all  hairy  and  black, 
Did  dance  with  his   hoofs   in  the  sand, 

laughing  back 
As  his  song  died  away . . .  .She  turned  never 

more 
Unto  me  after  that.      She  rose,   and  she 

pass'd 
Eight  on  from  my  sight.     Then  I  followed 

as  fast 

As  true  love  can  follow.     But  ever  before 
Like  a  spirit  she  fled.     How  vain  and  how 

far 
Did  I  follow  my  beauty,  red  belt  or  white 

star! 
Through  foamy  white  sea,  unto  fruit  laden 

shore! 

How  long  I  did  follow!  My  pent  soul 
of  fire 

It  did  feed  on  itself.     I  fasted,  I  cried; 

Was  tempted. by  many.  Yet  still  I  de 
nied 

The  touch  of  all  things,  and  kept  my  de 
sire.... 

I  stood  by  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  in  that 
hour 

Of  Venice  when  gold  of  the  sunset  is 
roll'd 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 


259 


From  cloud  to    cathedral,  from   turret  to 

tower, 
In  matchless,    magnificent    garments    of 

gold; 
Then  I  knew  she  was  near;  yet  I  had  not 

known 
Her  form  or  her  face  since  the  stars  were 

sown. 


We  two  had  been  parted— God  pity  us! — 

when 
This  world  was  unnamed  and  all  heaven 

was  dim; 
We  two  had  been  parted  far  back  on  the 

rim 
And  the  outermost  border  of  heaven's  red 

bars ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  the  meeting 

of  men, 
Or   God   had   set    compass  on    spaces  as 

yet; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  God  had  once 

set 
His   finger  to   spinning  the  purple  with 

stars, — 

And  now  at  the  last  in  the  sea  and  fret 
Of  the  sun  of  Venice,  we  two  had  met. 


Where  the  lion  of  Venice,  with  brows 

a-frown, 
With  tossed  mane  tumbled,  and  teeth  in 

air, 
Looks  out  in  his  watch  o'er  the  watery 

town, 
With  paw   half    lifted,    with    claws   half 

bare, 
By  the  blue  Adriatic,  at  her  bath  in  the 

sea, — 
I  saw  her.     I  knew  her,  but  she  knew  not 

me. 
I  had  found  her  at  last!     Why  I,  I  had 

sail'd 
The  antipodes  through,  had  sought,  and 

had  hail'd 


All  flags;  I  had  climbed  where  the  storm 

clouds  curl'd, 
And  call'd  o'er  the  awful  arch'd  dome  of 

the  world. 


I  saw  her  one  moment,  then  fell  back 

abash'd, 
And  fill'd  to  the  throat . . .  .Then  I  turn'd 

me  once  more, 
Thanking  God  in  my  soul,  while  the  level 

sun  flashed 
Happy  halos  about  her.... Her  breast! — 

why,  her  breast 
Was  white  as  twin  pillows  that  lure  you  to 

rest. 
Her  sloping  limbs  moved  like  to  melodies 

told, 
As  she  rose  from  the  sea,  and  threw  back 

the  gold 
Of  her  glorious  hair,  and  set  face  to  the 

shore .... 
I  knew  her!     I  knew  her,  though  we  had 

not  met 
Since  the  red  stars  sang  to  the  sun's  first 

set! 


How  long  I  had  sought  her!   I  had  hun- 

ger'd,  nor  ate 
Of  any  sweet  fruits.     I  had  followed  not 

one 
Of   all  the  fair  glories   grown   under  the 

sun. 

I  had  sought  only  her,  believing  that  she 
Had  come  upon  earth,  and  stood  waiting 

for  me 

Somewhere   by   my  way.     But  the  path 
ways  of  Fate 
They  had  led  otherwhere;  the  round  world 

round, 

The  far  North  seas  and  the  near  profound 
Had  fail'd  me  for  aye.     Now  I  stood  by 

that  sea 
Where  she  bathed  in  her  beauty, ....  God, 

I  and  she! 


260 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL. 


I  spake  not,  but  caught  iu  my  breath;  I 

did  raise 

My  face  to  fair  heaven  to  give  God  praise 
That  at  last,  ere  the  ending  of  Time,  we 

had  met, 
Had  touch'd  upon  earth  at  the  same  sweet 

place.. . . 
Yea,  we  never  had  met  since  creation  at 

all; 

Never,  since  ages  ere  Adam's  fall, 
Had  we  two  met  in  that  hunger  and  fret 
Where  two  should  be  one,  but  had  wan- 

der'd  through  space; 
Through  space  and   through  spheres,  as 

some  bird  that  hard  fate 
Gives  a  thousand  glad  Springs  but  never 

one  mate. 


Was  it  well  with  my  love?  Was  she 
true?  Was  she  brave 

"With  virtue's  own  valor?  Was  she  wait 
ing  for  me? 

K)h,  how  fared  my  love?  Had  she  home? 
had  she  bread  ? 

Had  she  known  but  the  touch  of  the  warm- 
temper'd  wave? 

Was  she  born  to  this  world  with  a  crown 
on  her  head, 

Or  born,  like  myself,  but  a  dreamer  in 
stead? 

So  long  it  had  been!     So  long!     Why,  the 


That  wrinkled  and  surly,  old,  time-tem- 

per'd  slave- 
Had  been  born,    had  his    revels,   grown 

wrinkled  and  hoar 
Since  I  last  saw  my  love  on  that  uttermost 

shore. 

Oh,  how  fared  my  love  ?     Once  I  lifted 

my  face, 
And  I  shook  back  my  hair  and  look'd  out 

on  the  sea; 
I  press'd  my  hot  palms  as  I  stood  in  my 

place, 


And  I  cried,  "Oh,  I  come  like  a  king  to 

your  side 
Though  all  hell  intervene! " . . . .  "Hist!  she 

may  be  a  bride, 
A  mother  at  peace,  with  sweet  babes  at  her 

knee! 
A  babe  at  her  breast  and  a  spouse  at  her 

side!  — 

Had  I  wander'd  too  long,  and  had  Destiny 
Set  mortal  between  us?"      I   buried  my 

face 
In  my  hands,  and  I  moan'd  as  I  stood  in 

my  place. 

'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.     She  was 

tall,  she  was  fair — 
Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps 

over  there  ? 
'Twas   her  year  to  be  young.     She  was 

queenly  and  tall; 
And  I  felt  she  was  true,  as  I  lifted  my 

face 
And  saw  her  press  down  her  rich  robe  to 

its  place, 
With  a  hand  white  and  small  as  a  babe's 

with  a  doll. 
And  her  feet! — why,  her  feet  in  the  white 

shining  sand 
Were  so  small,  'twas  a  wonder  the  maiden 

could  stand. 
Then   she  push'd  back  her  hair  with  a 

round  hand  that  shone 
And   flash'd   in   the  light  with  a   white 

starry  stone. 

Then  my  love  she  is  rich!     My  love  she 

is  fair! 
Is  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over 

there  ? 
She  is   gorgeous  with  wealth!     "Thank 

God,  she  has  bread," 
I  said  to  myself.      Then  I  humbled  my 

head 
In  gratitude  deep.    Then  I  question'd  me 

where 


THE    IDEAL   AND    THE    REAL. 


26l 


Was  her  palace,  her  parents  ?    What  name 

did  she  bear? 
What  mortal  on  earth  came  nearest  her 

heart  ? 
Who  touch'd  the  small  hand  till  it  thrill'd 

to  a  smart  ? 
Twas  her  year  to  be  young.      She  was 

rich,  she  was  fair — 
Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps 

over  there? 

Then  she  loosed  her  rich  robe  that  was 
blue  like  the  sea, 

And  silken  and  soft  as  a  baby's  new  born. 

And  my  heart  it  leap'd  light  as  the  sun 
light  at  morn 

At  the  sight  of  my  love  in  her  proud 
purity, 

As  she  rose  like  a  Naiad  half-robed  from 
the  sea. 

Then  careless  and  calm  as  an  empress  can 
be 

She  loosed  and  let  fall  all  the  raiment  of 
blue, 

As  she  drew  a  white  robe  in  a  melody 

Of  moving  white  limbs,  while  between 
the  two, 

Like  a  rift  in  a  cloud,  shone  her  fair  pres 
ence  through. 

Soon  she  turn'd,  reach'd  a  hand;  then 

a  tall  gondolier 
Who   had   lean'd  on  his  oar,  like  a  long 

lifted  spear, 

Shot  sudden  and  swift  and  all  silently, 
And  drew  to  her  side  as  she  turn'd  from 

the  tide. 
It  was  odd,  such  a  thing,  and  I  counted 

it  queer 
That  a  princess  like  this,  whether  virgin 

or  bride, 
Should  abide  thus  apart  as  she  bathed  in 

the  sea; 

And  I  chafed  and  I  chafed,  and  so  unsat 
isfied, 


That  I  flutter'd  the  doves  that  were  perch'd 

close  about, 
As  I  strode  up  and  down  in  dismay  and 

in  doubt. 

Swift  she  stept  in  the  boat  on  the  bor 
ders  of  night 

As  an  angel  might  step  on  that  far  won 
der  land 

Of  eternal  sweet  life,  which  men  mis-name 
Death. 

Quick  I  called  me  a  craft,  and  I  caught  at 
my  breath 

As  she  sat  in  the  boat,  and  her  white  baby 
hand 

Held  vestments  of  gold  to  her  throat, 
snowy  white. 

Then  her  gondola  shot, — shot  sharp  for 
the  shore: 

There  was  never  the  sound  of  a  song  or 
of  oar, 

But  the  doves  hurried  home  in  white 
clouds  to  Saint  Mark, 

Where  the  brass  horses  plunge  their  high 
manes  in  the  dark. 


Then   I  cried:    "Follow  fast!     Follow 

fast!    Follow  fast! 
Aye!  thrice  double  fare,  if  you  follow  her 

true 
To   her  own  palace  door!"     There    was 

plashing  of  oar 
And  rattle  of  rowlock....!   sat  peering 

through, 
Looking  far  in  the  dark,  peering  out  as 

we  passed 
With   my  soul   all  alert,   bending  down, 

leaning  low. 
But   only  the   oaths   of    the   fisherman's 

crew 

When  we  jostled  them  sharp  as  we  sud 
den  shot  through 
The  watery  town.     Then  a  deep,  distant 

roar — 
The  rattle  of  rowlock;  the  rush  of  the  oar. 


262 


THE    IDEAL    AND    THE    REAL. 


The  rattle  of  rowlock,  the  rush  of  the 

sea 

Swift  wind  like  a  sword  at  the  throat  of 

us  all! 

I  lifted  my  face,  and,  far,  fitfully 
The  heavens  breathed  lightning;  did  lift 

and  let  fall 
As  if  angels  were  parting  God's  curtains. 

Then  deep 

And  indolent-like,  and  as  if  half  asleep, 
As  if  half  made  angry  to  move  at  all, 
The  thunder  moved.     It  confronted  me. 
It  stood  like  an  avalanche  poised  on  a  hill, 
I  saw  its  black  brows.     I  heard  it  stand 

still. 


The  troubled  sea  throbb'd  as  if  rack'd 

with  pain. 
Then  the  black  clouds  rose  and  suddenly 

rode, 
As   a   fiery,  fierce  stallion  that  knows  no 

rein; 
Eight  into  the  town.     Then  the  thunder 

strode 

As  a  giant  striding  from  star  to  red  star, 
Then  turn'd  upon  earth  and   frantically 

came, 

Shaking  the  hollow  heaven.     And  far 
And   near  red  lightning    in  ribbon    and 

skin 

Did  seam  and  furrow  the  cloud  with  flame, 
And    write    on    black   heaven    Jehovah's 

name. 

Then  lightnings  came  weaving  like  shut 
tlecocks, 

Weaving  rent  robes  of  black  clouds  for 
death. 

And  frightened  doves  fluttered  them  home 
in  flocks, 

And  mantled  men  hied  them  with  gather'd 
breath. 

Black  gondolas  scattered  as  never  before, 

And  drew  like  crocodiles  up  on  the  shore; 

And  vessels  at  sea  stood  further  at  sea, 


And  seamen  haul;d  with  a  bended  knee. 
And   canvas   came  down  to    left  and  to 

right, 
Till  ships  stood  stripp'd  as  if  stripp'd  foi 

fight! 

Then  an  oath.  Then  a  prayer.  Then  a 
gust,  with  rents 

Through  the  yellow  sail'd  fishers.  Then 
suddenly 

Came  sharp  fork'd  fire!  Then  again  thun 
der  fell 

Like  the  great  first  gun!  Ah,  then  there 
was  rout 

Of  ships  like  the  breaking  of  regiments, 

And  shouts  as  if  hurled  from  an  upper 
hell. 

Then  tempest !  It  lifted,  it  spun  us  about, 
Then  shot  us  ahead  through  the  hills  of 

the  sea 
As  a  great  steel  arrow  shot  shoreward  in 

wars — 
Then  the  storm  split  open  till  I  saw  the 

blown  stars. 

On!  on!  through  the  foam!  through  the 
storm!  through  the  town! 

She  was  gone!  She  was  lost  in  that 
wilderness 

Of  leprous  white  palaces Black  dis 
tress! 

I  stood  in  my  gondola.  All  up  and  all 
down 

We  pushed  through  the  surge  of  the  salt- 
flood  street 

Above  and  below 'Twas  only  the  beat 

Of  the  sea's  sad  heart I  leaned,  list 
ened;  I  sat 

'Twas  only  the  water-rat;  nothing  but 
that; 

Not  even  the  sea-bird  screaming  distress, 

As  she  lost  her  way  in  that  wilderness. 

I  listen'd  all  night.    I  caught  at  each 
sound; 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 


263 


I  elutch'd   and  I  caught  as  a  man    that 

drowu'd — 

Only  the  sullen,  low  growl  of  the  sea 
Far  out  the  flood-street  at  the  edge  of  the 

ships; 

Only  the  billow  slow  licking  his  lips, 
A  dog  that  lay  crouching  there  watching 

for  me, — 
Growling  and  showing^rhite  teeth  all  the 

night; 

Only  a  dog,  and  as  ready  to  bite; 
Only  the  waves  with  their  salt-flood  tears 
Fretting  white  stones  of  a  thousand  years. 

And  then  a  white  dome  in  the  loftiness 
Of   cornice   and   cross  and    of    glittering 

spire 

That  thrust  to  heaven  and  held  the  fire 
Of  the  thunder  still;  the  bird's  distress 
As  he  struck  his  wings  in  that  wilderness, 
On  marbles  that  speak,  and  thrill,  and  in 
spire, — 

The  night  below  and  the  night  above; 
The  water-rat  building,  the  sea-lost  dove; 
That  one  lost,  dolorous,  lone  bird's  call, 
The  water-rat  building,— but  that  was  all. 

Silently,  slowly,  still  up  and  still  down, 
We  row'd  and  we  row'd  for  many  an  hour, 
By  beetling  palace  and  toppling  tower, 
In  the  darks  and  the  deeps  of  the  watery 

town. 

Only  the  water-rat  building  by  stealth, 
Only  the  lone  bird  astray  in  his  flight 
That  struck  white  wings  in  the  clouds  of 

night, 
On  spires  that  sprang  from  Queen  Adria's 

wealth; 

Only  one  sea  dove,  one  lost  white  dove: 
The  blackness  below,  the  blackness  above! 

Then,  pushing  the  darkness  from  pillar 

to  post, 

The  morning  came  sullen  and  gray  like  a 
ghost 


Slow   up  the  canal.     I  lean'd    from   the 

prow, 

And  listen'd.    Not  even  that  dove  in  dis 
tress 

Crying  its  way  through  the  wilderness; 
Not  even  the  stealthy  old  water-rat  now, 
Only  the  bell  in  the  fisherman's  tower, 
Slow  tolling  at  sea  and  telling  the  hour, 
To  kneel  to  their  sweet  Santa  Barbara 
For  tawny  fishers  at  sea,  and  to  pray. 

High    over    my  head,   carved   cornice, 

quaint  spire. 
And  ancient  built  palaces   knock'd   their 

gray  brows 

Together  and  frown'd.     Then  slow-creep 
ing  scows 
Scraped  the  walls  on  each  side.     Above 

me  the  fire 
Of  sudden-born  morning  came  flaming  in 

bars; 
While  up  through  the  chasm  I  could  count 

the  stars. 
Oh,  pity!     Such  ruin!     The  dank  smell  of 

death 
Crept  up  the  canal:     I  could  scarce  take 

my  breath! 
'Twas  the  fit  place  for  pirates,  for  women 

who  keep 
Contagion  of  body  and  soul  where  they 

sleep .... 


God's  pity!     A  white  hand  now  beck'd 

me 
From  an  old  mouldy  door,  almost  in  my 

reach. 
I   sprang  to  the   sill  as  one  wrecked  to  a 

beach; 
I  sprang  with  wide  arms:  it  was  she!  it 

was  she! 

And  in  such  a  damn'd  place!    And  what 

was  her  trade? 

To  think  I  had  follow'd  so  faithful,  so  far 
From  eternity's  brink,  from  star  to  white 

star, 


264 


THE  IDEAL,  AND  THE  REAL. 


To  find  her,  to   find  her,    nor  wife  nor 

sweet  maid! 
To  find  her  a  shameless  poor  creature  of 

shame, 
A  nameless,  lost  body,  men  hardly  dared 

name. 


All  alone  in  her  shame,  on  that  damp 

dismal  floor 

She  stood  to  entice  me 1  bow'd  me  be 
fore 
All-conquering  beauty.     I  call'd   her  my 

Queen! 
I   told   her  my  love    as   I  proudly    had 

told 
My  love  had  I  found  her  as  pure  as  pure 

gold. 
I  reach'd   her  my   hands,  as  fearless,  as 

clean, 
As  man  fronting  cannon.    I  cried,  "Hasten 

forth 
To  the  sun!    There  are  lands  to  the  south, 

to  the  north, 
Anywhere    where    you    will,      Dash    the 

shame  from  your  brow; 
Come  with  me,  for  ever;  and  come  with 

me  now!  " 


Why,    I'd   hare  turn'd  pirate    for  her, 

would  have  seen 

Ships  burn'd  from  the  seas,  like  to  stub 
ble  from  field. 
Would  I  turn  from  her  now?  Why  should 

I  now  yield, 
When  she  needed  me  most?    Had  I  found 

her  a  queen, 
And  beloved  by  the  world, — why,  what 

had  I  done? 
I  had   woo'd,    and  had  woo'd,    and   had 

woo'd  till  I  won! 
Then,  if  I  had  loved  her  with  gold  and 

fair  fame, 
Would  not  I  now  love  her,  and  love  her 

the  same  ? 


My  soul  hath  a  pride.    I  would  tear  out 

my  heart 
And  cast  it  to  dogs,  could  it  play  a  dog's 

part! 


"  Don't  you  know  me,  my  bride  of  the 
wide  world  of  yore? 

Why,  don't  you'  remember  the  white 
milky-way 

Of  stars,  that  we  traversed  the  aeons  be 
fore  ? 

We  were  counting  the  colors,  we  were 
naming  the  seas 

Of  the  vaster  ones.  You  remember  the 
trees 

That  sway'd  in  the  cloudy  white  heavens, 
and  bore 

Bright  crystals  of  sweets,  and  the  sweet 
manna-dew? 

Why,  you  smile  as  you  weep,  you  remem 
ber,  and  you, 

You  know  me!  You  know  me!  You  know 
me!  Yea, 

You  know  me  as  if  'twere  but  yesterday! 


I  told  her  all  things.     Her  brow  took  a 

frown; 

Her  grand  Titan  beauty,  so  tall,  so  serene, 
The  one  perfect  woman,  mine  own   idol 

queen — 
Her  proud  swelling  bosom,    it  broke  up 

and  down 
As  she  spake,  and  she  shook  in  her  soul 

as  she  said, 
With  her  small  hands  held  to  her  bent, 

aching  head: 
"  Go  back  to  the  world!     Go  back,  and 

alone 
Till  kind  Death  comes  and  makes  white 

his  own." 
I  said;     "  I  will  wait!     I  will  wait  in  the 

pass 
Of  death,  until  Time  he  shall  break  his 

glass." 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 


Then   I  cried,    "Yea,    here  where  the 

gods  did  love, 
Where  the  white  Europa  was  won, — she 

rode 
Her  milk-white  bull  through  these  same 

warm  seas, — 

Yea,  here  in  the  land  where  huge  Her 
cules, 
With  the  lion's  heart  and  the  heart  of  the 

dove, 
Did  walk  in  his  naked  great  strength,  and 

strode 

In  the  sensuous  air  with  his  lion's  skin 
Flapping  and  fretting  his  knotted  thews; 
Where   Theseus   did  wander,   and   Jason 

cruise, — 
Yea,  here  let  the  life  of  all  lives  begin. 

"Yea!    Here   where   the  Orient  balms 

breathe  life, 
Where  heaven  is  kindest,  where  all  God's 

blue 
Seems    a   great   gate  open'd  to   welcome 

you. 
Come,  rise  and  go  forth,  my  empress,  my 

wife." 
Then   spake  her  great  soul,   so   grander 

far 
Than  I  had  believed  on  that  outermost 

star; 
And  she  put  by  her  tears,  and  calmly  she 

said, 

With  hands  still  held  to  her  bended  head: 
"  I  will  go  through  the  doors  of  death  and 

wait 
For  you  on  the  innermost  side  death's 

gate. 

"Thank  God  that  this  life  is  but  a  day's 

span, 

But  a  wayside  inn  for  weary,  worn  man — 
A  night  and  a  day;  and,  to-morrow,  the 

spell 

O,  darkness  is  broken.  Now,  darling,  fare 
well!" 


I   caught   at   her   robe  as   one  ready   to 

die — 
"Nay,  touch  not  the  hem  of  my  robe — it 

is  red 
With  sins  that  your  own  sex  heap'd  on 

my  head! 
Now  turn  you,  yes,  turn!    But  remember 

how  I 
Wait  weeping,  in  sackcloth,  the  while  I 

wait 
Inside    death's   door,    and  watch    at   the 

gate." 


I  cried  yet  again,  how  I  cried,  how  I 
cried, 

Reaching  face,  reaching  hands  as  a  drown 
ing  man  might. 

She  drew  herself  back,  put  my  two  hands 
aside, 

Half  turned  as  she  spoke,  as  one  turned 
to  the  night: 

Speaking  low,  speaking  soft  as  a  wind 
through  the  wall 

Of  a  ruin  where  mold  and  night  masters 
all; 


"  I  shall  live  my  day,  live  patient  on 

through 

The  life  that  man  hath  compelled  me  to, 
Then  turn  to  my  mother,  sweet  earth,  and 

pray 

She  keep  me  pure  to  the  Judgment  Day! 
I  shall  sit  and  wait  as  you  used  to  do, 
Will  wait  the  next  life,  through  the  whole 

life  through. 

I  shall  sit  all  alone,  I  shall  wait  alway; 
I    shall    wait    inside     of    the    gate    for 

you, 
Waiting,    and    counting    the   days    as    I 

wait; 
Yea,  wait  as  that  beggar  that  sat  by  the 

gate 
Of     Jerusalem,    waiting    the    Judgment 

Day." 


266 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.    MARK. 


A  DOVE  OF  ST.  MARK. 

O  terrible  lion  of  tame  Saint  Mark  ! 
Tamed  old  lion  with  the  tumbled  mane 
Tossed  to  the  clouds  and  lost  in  the  dark, 
With  teeth  in  the  air  and  tail-whipped  back, 
Foot  on  the  Bible  as  if  thy  track 
Led  thee  the  lord  of  the  desert  again 
Say,  what  of  thy  watch  o'er  the  watery  town? 
Say,  what  of  the  worlds  walking  up  and  down  t 

0  silent  old  monarch  that  tops  Saint  Mark, 
That  sat  thy  throne  for  a  thousand  years, 
That  lorded  the  deep  that  defied  all  men, — 
Lo  !  I  see  visions  at  sea  in  the  dark; 
And  I  see  something  that  shines  like  tears, 
And  I  hear  something  that  sounds  like  sighs, 
And  I  hear  something  that  seems  as  when 
A  great  soul  suffers  and  sinks  and  dies. 


The    high-born,    beautiful  snow  came 

down, 

Silent  and  soft  as  the  terrible  feet 
Of  time  on  the  mosses  of  ruins.     Sweet 
Was   the   Christmas  time  in   the   watery 

town. 

Twas  full  flood  carnival  swell'd  the  sea 
Of  Venice  that  night,  and  canal  and  quay 
Were  alive   with    humanity.      Man    and 

maid, 

Glad  in  mad  revel  and  masquerade, 
Moved  through  the  feathery  snow  in  the 

night, 
And  shook  black  locks  as  they  laugh'd 

outright. 

From  Santa  Maggiore,  and  to  and  fro, 
And  ugly  and  black  as  if  devils  cast  out, 
Black  streaks  through  the  night  of  such 
soft,  white  snow, 


The  steel-prow'd  gondolas  paddled  about; 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  long  oars' 

dip, 
As  the  low  moon  sail'd  up  the  sea  like  a 

ship 
In  a  misty  morn.     High  the  low   moon 

rose, 
Hose  veil'd  and  vast,  through  the  feathery 

snows, 
As  a  minstrel  stept  silent  and  sad  from  his 

boat, 
His  worn  cloak  clutched  in  his  hand  to 

his  throat. 

Low  under  the  lion  that  guards  St.  Mark, 
Down  under  wide  wings  on  the  edge  oJ 

the  sea 
In  the  dim  of  the  lamps,   on  the  rim  oi 

the  dark, 
Alone  and  sad  in  the  salt-flood  town, 


A   DOVE   OF   ST.    MARK. 


267 


Silent  and  sad  and  all  sullenly, 

He  sat  by  the  column  where  the  crocodile 

Keeps  watch  o'er  the  wave,  far  mile  upon 
mile .... 

Like  a  signal  light  through  the  storm  let 
down, 

Then  a  far  star  fell  through  the  dim  pro 
found — 

A  jewel  that  slipp'd  God's  hand  to  the 
ground. 

The  storm  had  blown  over!  Now  up 
and  then  down, 

Alone  and  in  couples,  sweet  women  did 
pass, 

Silent  and  dreamy,  as  if  seen  in  a  glass, 

Half  mask'd  to  the  eyes,  in  their  Adrian 
town. 

Such  women!  It  breaks  one's  heart  to 
think. 

Water!  and  never  one  drop  to  drink! 

What  types  of  Titian!  What  glory  of 
hair! 

How  tall  as  the  sisters  of  Saul!  How  fair! 

Sweet  flowers  of  flesh,  and  all  blossom 
ing. 

As  if  'twere  in  Eden,  and  in  Eden's  spring. 

"They  are  talking  aloud  with  all  their 

eyes, 

Yet  passing  me  by  with  never  one  word. 
O  pouting  sweet  lips,  do  you  know  there 

are  lies 
That  are  told  with  the  eyes,  and  never 

once  heard 
Above  a  heart's  beat   when  the   soul   is 

stirr'd? 
It  is  time  to  fly  home,  O   doves   of   St. 

Mark! 
Take  boughs  of  the  olive;  bear  these  to 

your  ark, 
And  rest  and  be  glad,  for  the  seas  and  the 

skies 
Of  Venice  are  f air ....  What !  wouldn't  go 

home? 


What!  drifting  and  drifting  as  the  soil'd 
seaf  oam  ? 


"  And  who  then  are  you?  You,  masked, 

and  so  fair? 

Your  half  seen  face  is  a  rose  full  blown, 
Down  under  your  black  and   abundant 

hair  ? . . . . 
A  child  of   the  street,   and   unloved  and 

alone! 

Unloved;  and   alone ?.... There  is  some 
thing  then 

Between  us  two  that  is  not  unlike! 

The  strength  and  the  purposes  of  men 
Fall  broken  idols.     We  aim  and  strike 
With  high-born  zeal  and  with  proud  in 
tent. 
Yet  let  life  turn  on  some  accident .... 


"Nay,  I'll  not  preach.     Time's  lessons 

pass 
Like  twilight's  swallows.     They  chirp  in 

their  flight, 
And    who    takes    heed    of    the    wasting 

glass  ? 

Night  follows  day,  and  day  follows  night, 
And  no  thing  rises  on  earth  but  to  fall 
Like  leaves,  with  their  lessons  most  sad 

and  fit. 
They  are  spread  like  a  volume  each  year 

to  all; 

Yet  men  or  women  learn  naught  of  it, 
Or  after  it  all,  but  a  weariness 
Of  soul  and  body  and  untold  distress. 


"Yea,   sit,  lorn  child,  by  my  side,  and 

we, 
We  will  talk  of  the  world.     Nay,  let  my 

hand 
Fall   kindly  to  yours,   and   so,    let   your 

face 

Fall  fair  to  my  shoulder,  and  you  shall  be 
My  dream  of  sweet  Italy.     Here  in  this 

place, 


268 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.    MARK. 


Alone  in  the  crowds  of  this  old  careless 

land, 
I  shall   shelter  your   form  till  the    morn 

and  then — 
Why,  I  shall  return  to  the  world  and  to 

men, 
And  you,  not  stain'd  for  one  strange,  kind 

word 
And  my  three  last  francs,  for  a  lorn  night 

bird. 


"Fear  nothing  from   me,    nay,    never 

once  fear. 
The  day,    my   darling,    comes    after    the 

night. 
The  nights  they  were  made  to  show  the 

light 
Of  the  stars  in  heaven,  though  the  storms 

be  near 

Do   you    see  that    figure  of  Fortune    up 

there, 

That  tops  the  Dogana  with  toe  a-tip 
Of  the  great  gold  ball  ?     Her  scroll  is  a-trip 
To  the  turning  winds.     She  is  light  as  the 

air. 

Her  foot  is  set  upon  plenty's  horn, 
Her  fair  face  set  to  the  coming  morn. 


"Well,  trust  we  to  Fortune Bread 

on  the  wave 

Turns  ever  ashore  to  the  hand  that  gave. 
What  am  I?    A  poet — a  lover  of  all 
That  is  lovely  to  see.    Nay,  naught  shall 

befall.... 

Yes,  I  am  a  failure.     I  plot  and  I  plan, 
Give  splendid  advice  to  my  fellow-man, 
Yet  ever  fall  short  of  achievement.... Ah 

me! 

In  my  lorn  life's  early,  sad  afternoon, 
Say,  what  have  I  left  but  a  rhyme  or  a 

rune? 

An  empty  hand  for  some  soul  at  sea, 
Some    fair,    forbidden,     sweet     fruit     to 

choose, 


That  'twere  sin  to  touch,  and— sin  to  re 
fuse? 


"  What!     I  go  drifting  with  you,  girl, 

to-night  ? 

To  sit  at  your  side  and  to  call  you  love  ? 
Well,  that  were  a  fancy!     To  feed  a  dove, 
A    poor   soil'd   dove  of    this   dear   Saint 

Mark, 
Too  frighten'd  to  rest  and  too  weary  for 

flight .... 
Aye,    just     three    francs,     my     fortune. 

There!     He 
Who   feeds    the   sparrows    for    this  will 

feed  me. 
Now,  here  'neath   the  lion,  alone   in  the 

dark, 

And  side  by  side  let  us  sit,  poor  dear, 
Breathing  the  beauty  as  an  atmosphere. . . 

"  We  will  talk  of  your  loves,    I  write 

tales  of  love 

What!     Cannot  read?     Why,    you  never 

heard  then 

Of  your  Desdemona,  nor  the  daring  men 
Who  died  for  her  love?    My  poor  white 

dove, 
There's   a   story  of  Shylock  would  drive 

you  wild. 
What!    Never  have  heard  of  these  stories, 

my  child  ? 
Of  Tasso,  of  Petrarch?     Not  the  Bridge 

of  Sighs? 

Not  the  tale  of  Ferrara?    Not  the  thou 
sand  whys 

That  your  Venice  was  ever  adored  above 
All  other  fair  lands  for  her  stories  of  love » 


"What    then    about    Shylock?     'Twas 

gold.     Yes — dead. 
The  lady?    'Twas  love. ..  .Why,  yes;  she 

too 
Is  dead.     And  Byron?     'Twas fame.     Ah, 

true. . 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.    MARK. 


269 


Tasso  and  Petrarch?     All  died,  just  the 

same 

Yea,   so  endeth  all,   as   you    truly  have 

said, 
And  you,    poor  girl,   are  too  wise;    and 

you, 
Too  sudden  and  swift  in  your  hard,  ugly 

youth, 
Have  stumbled  face  fronting  an  obstinate 

truth. 
For  whether  for    love,    for   gold,   or   for 

fame, 
They  but  lived  their  day,  and  they  died, 

the  same. 

But  let's  talk  not  of  death  ?     Of  death  or 

the  life 
That  comes  after  death?    'Tis  beyond  your 

reach, 
And  this  too  much  thought  has  a  sense  of 

strife  

Ah,  true;  I  promised  you  not  to  preach. . . 
My  maid  of  Venice,  or  maid  unmade, 
Hold   close  your  few  francs  and  be  not 

afraid. 
What!     Say  you  are  hungry?    Well,    let 

us  dine 
Till  the  near  morn   comes   on   the  silver 

shine 

Of  the  lamp-lit  sea.     At  the  dawn  of  day, 
My  sad  child-woman,   you   can   go   your 

way. 

"  What!  You  have  a  palace?    I  know  your 

town; 

Know  every  nook  of  it,  left  and  right, 
As  well  as  yourself.     Why,   far  up  and 

down 

Your  salt  flood  streets,  lo,  many  a  night 
I  have  row'd  and  have  roved  in  my  lorn 

despair 
Of  love  upon  earth,   and    I  know    well 

there 

Is  no  such  palace.     What!  and  you  dare 
To  look  in  my  face  and  to  lie  outright, 


To  lift  your  face,  and  to  frown  me  down? 
There  is   no  such  palace  in  that  part  of 
the  town! 


"  You  would   woo    me    away    to    your 

rickety  boat! 
You  would  pick  my  pockets!    You  would 

cut  my  throat, 
With  help  of  your  pirates!  Then  throw  me 

out 

Loaded  with  stones  to  sink  me  down, 
Down  into  the  filth  and  the  dregs  of  your 

town! 

Why,  that  is  your  damnable  aim,  no  doubt! 
And,  my  plaintive  voiced  child,  you  seem 

too  fair, 

Too  fair,  for  even  a  thought  like  that; 
Too  fair  for  ever  such  sin  to  dare — 
Ay,  even  the  tempter  to  whisper  at. 

"Now,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being 

true, 

True,  even  in  villiany.     Listen  to  me: 
Blaok-skinird  women  and  low-brow'd  men, 
And  desperate  robbers  and  thieves;  and 

then, 
Why,  there  are  the  pirates! ....  Ay,  pirates 

reform'd — 

Pirates  reform'd  and  unreform'd; 
Pirates  for  me  girl,  friends  for  you, — 
And  these  are  your  neighbors.    And  so  you 

see 
That  I  know  your  town,  your  neighbors; 

and  I— 
Well,  pardon  me,  dear — but  I  know  you 

lie. 


"Tut,  tut,  my  beauty!    What  trickery 

now? 
Why,  tears  through  your  hair  on  my  hand 

like  rain! 

Come!  look  in  my  face:  laugh,  lie  again 
With  your  wonderful  eyes.     Lift  up  your 

brow, 


270 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.    MARK. 


Laugh  in  the  face  of  the  world,  and  lie! 

Now,  come!    This  lying  is  no  new  thing. 

The  wearers  of  laces  know  well  how  to 
lie, 

As  well,  ay,  better,  than  you  or  I 

But  they  lie  for  fortune,  for  fame:  in 
stead, 

You,  child  of  the  street,  only  lie  for  your 
bread. 


"Some  sounds   blow  in   from  the 

distant  land. 

The  bells  strike  sharp,  and  as  out  of  tune, 
Some  sudden,  short  notes.  To  the  east 

and  afar, 

And  up  from  the  sea,  there  is  lifting  a  star 
As  large,  my  beautiful  child,  and  as  white 
And  as  lovely  to  see  as  some  lady's  white 

hand. 
The   people  have   melted  away   with  the 

night, 

And  not  one  gondola  frets  the  lagoon. 
See!     Away  to  the  mountain,  the  face  of 

morn. 

Hear!     Away  to  the  sea — 'tis  the  fisher 
man's  horn. 


'"Tis  morn  in  Venice!    My  child,  adieu! 
Arise,  sad  sister,  and  go  your  way; 
And  as  for  myself,  why,  much  like  you, 
I  shall  sell  this  story  to  who  will  pay 
And  dares  to  reckon  it  truthful  and  meet. 
Yea,  each  of  us   traders,    poor  child  of 

pain; 

For  each  must  barter  for  bread  to  eat 
In  a  world  of  trade  and  an  age  of  gain; 
With    just    this  difference,   waif  of    the 

street, 
You  sell  your  body,  I  sell  my  brain. 


"  Poor  lost  little  vessel,  with  never  a 

keel. 

Saint  Marks,  what  a  wreck!     Lo,  here  you 
reel, 


With  never  a  soul  to  advise  or  to  care; 
All  cover'd  with   sin   to  the  brows    and 

hair, 

You  lie  like  a  seaweed,  well  a-strand; 
Blown    like    the    sea-kelp    hard    on   the 

shale, 

A  half-drown'd  body,  with  never  a  hand 
Keach'd  out  to  help  where  you  falter  and 

fail: 
Left    stranded    alone    to    starve    and    to 

die, 
Or  to  sell  your  body  to  who  may  buy. 

"My  sister  of   sin,    I  will    kiss   you! 

Yea, 
I  will  fold  you,  hold  you   close    to    my 

breast; 
And   here  as  you   rest  in  your  first  fair 

rest, 
As  night  is  push'd  back  from  the  face  of 

day, 
I  will  push  your  heavy,  dark  heaven  of 

hair 
Well  back  from  your  brow,  and  kiss  you 

where 

Your  ruffian,  bearded,  black  men  of  crime 
Have  stung  you  and  stain'd  you  a  thou 
sand  time; 
I  will  call  you  my  sister,  sweet  child,  and 

keep 
You  close  to  my  heart,  lest  you  wake  but 

to  weep. 

"I  will  tenderly  kiss  you,  and  I  shall 
not  be 

Ashamed,  nor  yet  stain'd  in  the  least, 
sweet  dove, — 

I  will  tenderly  kiss,  with  the  kiss  of 
Love, 

And  of  Faith,  and  of  Hope,  and  of  Char 
ity. 

Nay,  I  shall  be  purer  and  be  better 
then; 

For,  child  of  the  street,  you,  living  or 
dead, 


A   DOVE    OF    ST.    MARK. 


271 


Stain'd  to  the  brows,  are  purer  to  me 
Ten   thousand   times   than  the  world  of 

men, 
Who   reach  you  a  hand  but  to  lead  you 

astray, — 
But  the  dawn  is  upon  us.   There!  go  your 

way. 


"  And  take  great  courage.   Take  courage 

and  say, 

Of  this  one  Christmas  when  I  am  away, 
Roving  the  world  and  forgetful  of  you, 
That  I  found  you  as  white  as  the  snow 

and  knew 
You    but   needed  a  word    to    keep    you 

true. 

When  you  fall  weary  and  so  need  rest, 
Then   find  kind  words    hidden   down  in 

your  breast; 
And   if  rough  men   question  you,  —  why, 

then  say 
That  Madonna  sent  them.     Then  kneel 

and  pray, 
And    pray    for    me,     the    worst    of    the 

two: 
Then  God   will  bless   you,    sweet   child, 

and  I 
Shall  be  the  better  when  I  come  to  die. 


"  Yea,  take  great  courage,  it  will  be  as 

bread; 
Have  faith,  have  faith  while  this  day  wears 

through. 

Then  rising  refresh'd,  try  virtue  instead; 
Be    stronger    and    better,    poor,    pitiful 

dear, 
So  prompt  with  a  lie,  so  prompt  with  a 

tear, 
For  the  hand  grows  stronger  as  the  heart 

grows  true  ____ 
Take  courage,    my  child,    for  I  promise 

you 
We  are  judged  by  our  chances  of  life  and 

lot; 


And  your  poor  little  soul  may  yet  pass 

through 
The  eye  of  the  needle,  where  >  laces  shall 

not. 

"Sad  dove  of  the  dust,   with  tear- wet 

wings, 
Homeless  and  lone  as  the  dove  from  its 

ark, — 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel  that    tops  St. 

Mark, 

That  tops  the  tower,  that  tops  the  town, 
If  he  knew  us  two,  if  he  knew  all 

things, 
Would    say,    or    think,    you   are    worse 

than  I? 
Do  you  reckon  yon   angel,  now  looking 

down, 

Far  down  like  a  star,  he  hangs  so  high, 
Could  tell  which  one   were  the  worse  of 

us  two? 
Child  of  the  street — it  is  not  you! 

"If  we  two  were  dead,  and  laid  side  by 

side 
Eight  here  on   the  pavement,  this   very 

day, 

Here  under  the  sun-flushed  maiden  sky, 
Where  the  morn  flows  in  like  a  rosy  tide, 
And  the  sweet  Madonna  that  stands  in 

the  moon, 
With  her  crown  of  stars,  just  across  the 

lagoon, 
Should  come  and  should  look  upon  you 

and  I,— 
Do  you  reckon,  my  child,  that  she  would 

decide 

As  men  do  decide  and  as  women  do  say, 
That  you  are  so  dreadful,  and  turn  away? 

"  If  angels  were  sent  to  choose  this 

day 

Between  us  two  as  we  stand  here, 
Here  side  by  side  in  this  storied  place, — 


272 


A    DOVE    OF    ST.    MARK. 


If  God's   angels   were   sent   to  choose,   I 

say, 

This  very  moment  the  best  of  the  two, 
You,  white  with  a  hunger  and  stain'd  with 

a  tear, 

Or  I,  the  rover  the  wide  world  through, 
Restless  and  stormy  as  any  sea, — 
Looking    us    two   right   straight    in   the 

face, 
Child  of  the  street,  he  would  not  choose 

me. 

"  The  fresh  sun  is  falling  on  turret  and 

tower, 

The   far  sun    is    flashing  on    spire    and 
dome, 


The  marbles  of  Venice  are   bursting  to 

flower, 
The  marbles   of    Venice  are    flower   and 

foam: 
Good  night  and  good  morn;  I  must  leave 

you  now. 
There!  bear  my  kiss  on   your  pale,   soft 

brow 
Through  earth  to  heaven:  and  when  we 

shall  meet 
Beyond  the   darkness ,  poor  waif  of    the 

street, 
Why,  then   I  shall   know   you,   my  sad, 

sweet  dove; 
Shall  claim  you,  and  ki&s  you,  with  the 

kiss  of  love." 


SUNSET    AND    DAWN    IN    SAN    DIEGO.  273 


SUNSET  AND  DAWN  IN  SAN  DIEGO. 

My  city  sits  amid  her  palms; 
The  perfume  of  her  twilight  breath 
Is  something  as  the  sacred  balms 
That  bound  sweet  Jesus  after  death, 
Such  soft,  warm  tivilight  sense  as  lies 
Against  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

Such  prayerful  palms,  wide  palms  upreached! 
This  sea  mist  is  as  incense  smoke, 
Yon  ancient  walls  a  sermon  preached, 
White  lily  with  a  heart  of  oak. 

And  0,  this  twilight!  0  the  grace 

Of  twilight  on  my  lifted  face! 

I  love  you,  twilight, — love  with  love 
So  loyal,  loving,  fond  that  I 
When  folding  these  worn  hands  to  die, 
Shall  pray  God  lead  me  not  above, 
But  leave  me,  twilight,  sad  and  true, 
To  walk  this  lonesome  world  with  you. 

Yea,  God  knows  I  have  ivalked  with  night; 
I  have  not  seen,  I  have  not  known 
Such  light  as  beats  upon  His  throne. 
I  know  I  could  not  bear  such  light; 
Therefore,  I  beg,  sad  sister  true, 
To  share  your  shadow-world  with  you. 

I  love  you,  love  you,  maid  of  night, 
Your  perfumed  breath,  your  dreamful  eyes, 
Your  holy  silences,  your  sighs 
Ofmateless  longing;  your  delight 
When  night  says,  Hang  on  yon  moon's  horn 
Your  russet  gown,  and  rest  till  morn. 


274 


SUNSET   AND    DAWN    IN    SAN    DIEGO. 


The  sun  is  dying;  space  and  room, 
Serenity,  vast  sense  of  rest, 
Lie  bosomed  in  the  orange  west 
Of  orient  waters.     Hear  the  boom 
Of  long,  strong  billows;  wave  on  wave, 
Like  funeral  guns  above  a  grave. 

Now  night  folds  all;  no  sign  or  word; 
But  still  that  rocking  of  the  deep — 
Sweet  mother,  rock  the  world  to  sleep: 
Still  rock  and  rock;  as  I  have  heard 
Sweet  mother  gently  rock  and  rock 
The  while  she  folds  the  little  frock. 


Broad   mesa,    brown,   bare    mountains, 

brown, 

Bowed  sky  of  brown,  that  erst  was  blue; 
Dark,  earth-brown  curtains  coming  down — 
Earth-brown,  that  all  hues  melt  into; 
Brown  twilight,  born  of  light  and  shade; 
Of  night  that  came,  of  light  that  passed. . . 
How  like  some  lorn,  majestic  maid 
That  wares  not  whither  way  at  last! 


Now  perfumed  Night,  sad-faced  and  far, 
Walks  up  the  world  in  somber  brown. 
Now  suddenly  a  loosened  star 
Lets  all  her  golden  hair  fall  down — 
And  Night  is  dead  Day's  coffin-lid, 
With  stars  of  gold  shot  through  his  pall. .  . . 
I  hear  the  chorus,  katydid; 
A  katydid,  and  that  is  all. 


Some  star-tipt  candles  foot  and  head; 
Some  perfumes  of  the  perfumed  sea; 
And  now  above  the  coffined  dead 
Dusk  draws  great  curtains  lovingly; 
While  far  o'er  all,  so  dreamful  far, 
God's  Southern  Cross  by  faith  is  seen 
Tipt  by  one  single  blazing  star, 
With  spaces  infinite  between. 


Come,  love  His  twilight,  the  perfume 
Of  God's  great  trailing  garment's  hem; 
The  sense  of  rest,  the  sense  of  room, 
The  garnered  goodness  of  the  day, 
The  twelve  plucked  hours  of  His  tree, 
When  all  the  world  has  gone  its  way 
And  left  perfection  quite  to  me 
And  Him  who,  loving,  fashioned  them. 


I  know  not  why  that  wealth  and  pride 
Win  not  my  heart  or  woo  my  tale. 
I  only  know  I  know  them  not; 
I  only  know  to  cast  my  lot 
Where  love  walks  noiselessly  with  night 
And  patient  nature;  my  delight 
The  wild  rose  of  the  mountain  side, 
The  lowly  lily  of  the  vale; 


To  live  not  asking,  just  to  live; 
To  live  not  begging,  just  to  be; 
To  breathe  God's  presence  in  the  dusk 
That  drives  out  loud,  assertive  light- 
To  never  ask,  but  ever  give; 
To  love  my  noiseless  mother,  Night; 
Her  vast  hair  moist  with  smell  of  musk, 
Her  breath  sweet  with  eternity. 


A  hermit's  path,  a  mountain's  perch, 
A  sandaled  monk,  a  dying  man — 
A  far-off,  low,  adobe  church, 
Below  the  hermit's  orange-trees 
That  cap  the  clouds  above  the  seas, 
So  far,  its  spire  seems  but  a  span. 


A  low-voiced  dove!    The  dying  Don 
Put  back  the  cross  and  sat  dark-browed 
And  sullen,  as  a  dove  flew  out 
The  bough,  and  circling  round  about, 
Was  bathed  and  gathered  in  a  cloud, 
That,  like  some  ship,  sailed  on  and  on. 


SUNSET   AND    DAWN    IN    SAN    DIEGO. 


275 


But  let  the  gray  monk  tell  the  tale; 
And  tell  it  just  as  told  to  me. 
This  Don  was  chiefest  of  the  vale 
That  banks  by  San  Diego's  sea, 
And  who  so  just,  so  generous, 
As  he  who  now  lay  dying  thus? 

But  wrong,  such  shameless  Saxon  wrong, 
Had   crushed   his  heart,    had   made  him 

hate 

The  sight,  the  very  sound,  of  man. 
He  loved  the  lonely  wood-dove's  song; 
He  loved  it  as  his  living  mate. 
And  lo!  the  good  monk  laid  a  ban 
And  penance  of  continual  prayer— 
But  list,  the  living,  dying  there! 


For  now  the  end  was,  and  he  lay 
As  day  lies  banked  against  the  night — 
As  lies  some  bark  at  close  of  day 
To  wait  the  dew-born  breath  of  night; 
To  wait  the  ebb  of  tide,  to  wait 
The  swift  plunge  through  the  Golden  Gate : 


The  plunge  from  bay  to  boundless  sea — 
From  life  through  narrow  straits  of  night, 
From  time  to  bright  eternity — 
To  everlasting  walks  of  light. 
Some  like  as  when  you  sudden  blow 
Your  candle  out  and  turn  you  so 
To  sleep  unto  the  open  day: 
And  thus  the  priest  did  pleading  say: 


"You  fled  my  flock,  and  sought  this 

steep 

And  stony,  star-lit,  lonely  height, 
Where1  weird  and  unnamed  creatures  keep 
To  hold  strange  thought  with  things   of 

night 

Long,  long  ago.     But  now  at  last 
Your  life  sinks  surely  to  the  past. 
Lay  hold,  lay  hold,  the  cross  I  bring, 
Where  all  God's  goodly  creatures  cling. 


"  Yea!  You  are  good.     Dark-browed  and 

low 

Beneath  your  shaggy  brows  you  look 
On  me,  as  you  would  read  a  book: 
And  darker  still  your  dark  brows  grow 
As  I  lift  up  the  cross  to  pray, 
And  plead  with  you  to  walk  its  way. 


"  Yea,  you  are  good!    There  is  not  one, 
From  Tia  Juana  to  the  reach 
And  bound  of  gray  Pacific  Beach, 
From  Coronado's  palm-set  isle 
And  palm-hung  pathways,  mile  on  mile,    , 
But  speaks  you,  Senor,  good  and  true. 
But  oh,  my  silent,  dying  son! 
The  cross  alone  can  speak  for  you 
When  all  is  said  and  all  is  done. 


"Come!  Turn  your  dim  old  eyes  tc   me, 
Have  faith  and  help  me  plant  this  cross 
Beyond  where  blackest  billows  toss, 
As  you  would  plant  some  pleasnnt  tree: 
Some  fruitful  orange-tree,  and  know 
That  it  shall  surely  grow  and  grow, 
As  your  own  orange-trees  have  grown, 
And  be,  as  they,  your  very  own. 


"You  smile  at  last,  and  pleasantly: 
You  love  your  laden  orange-trees 
Set  high  above  your  silver  seas 
With  your  own  honest  hand;  each  tree 
A  date,  a  day,  a  part,  indeed, 
Of  your  own  life,  and  walk,  and  creed. 

"You  love  your  steeps,  your  star -set 

blue: 

You  watch  yon  billows  flash,  and  toss, 
And  leap,  and  curve,  in  merry  rout, 
You  love  to  hear  them  laugh  and  shout — 
Men  say  you  hear  them  talk  to  you; 
Men  say  you  sit  and  look  and  look, 
As  one  who  reads  some  holy  book — 
My  son,  come,  look  upon  the  cross  ? 


276 


SUNSET    AND    DAWN    IN    SAN    DIEGO. 


"Come,  see  me  plant  amid  your  trees 
My  cross,  that  you  may  see  and  know 
'T  will  surely  grow,  and  grow,  and  grow, 
As  grows  some  trusted  little  seed; 
As  grows  some  secret,  small  good  deed; 

The  while  you  gaze  upon  your  seas 

Sweet  Christ,  now  let  it  grow,  and  bear 
Fair  fruit,  as  your  own  fruit  is  fair. 


"Aye!  ever  from  the  first  I  knew, 
And  marked  its  flavor,  freshness,  hue, 
The  gold  of  sunset  and  the  gold 
^Of  morn,  in  each  rich  orange  rolled. 

"I  mind  me  now,  't  was  long   since, 

friend, 

When  first  I  climbed  your  path  alone, 
A  savage  path  of  brush  and  stone, 
And  rattling  serpents  without  end. 


"  Yea,  years  ago,  when  blood  and  life 
Ran  swift,  and  your  sweet,  faithful  wife — 
What!  tears  at  last;  hot,  piteous  tears 
That  through  your  bony  fingers  creep 
The  while  you  bend  your  face,  and  weep 
As  if  your  heart  of  hearts  would  break — 
As  if  these  tears  were  your  heart's  blood, 
A  pent-up,  sudden,  bursting  flood — 
Look  on  the  cross,  for  Jesus'  sake." 


'T  was  night,  and  still  it  seemed  not 

night. 

Yet,  far  down  in  the  canon  deep, 
Where  night  had  housed  all  day,  to  keep 
Companion  with  the  wolf,  you  might 
Have  hewn  a  statue  out  of  night. 


The  shrill  coyote  loosed  his  tongue 
Deep  in  the  dark  arroyo's  bed; 
And  bat  and  owl  above  his  head 
From  out  their  gloomy  caverns  swung: 


A  swoop  of  wings,  a  cat-like  call, 
A  crackle  of  sharp  chaparral! 

Then  sudden,  fitful  winds  sprang  out, 
And  swept  the  mesa  like  a  broom; 
Wild,  saucy  winds,  that  sang  of  room! 
That  leapt  the  canon  with  a  shout 
From  dusty  throats,  audaciously 
And  headlong  tore  into  the  sea, 
As  tore  the  swine  with  lifted  snout. 

Some  birds  came,  went,  then  came  again 
From  out  the  hermit's  wood-hung  hill; 
Came  swift,  and  arrow-like,  and  still, 
As  you  have  seen  birds,  when  the  rain — 
The  great,  big,  high-born  rain,  leapt  white 
And  sudden  from  a  cloud  like  night. 

And  then  a  dove,  dear,  nun-like  dove, 
With  eyes  all  tenderness,  with  eyes 
So  loving,  longing;  full  of  love, 
That  when  she  reached  her  slender  throat 
And  sang  one  low,  soft,  sweetest  note, 
Just  one,  so  faint,  so  far,  so  near, 
You  could  have  wept  with  joy  to  hear. 

The  old  man,  as  if  he  had  slept, 
Raised   quick   his  head,  then  bowed  and 

wept 

For  joy,  to  hear  once  more  her  voice. 
With  childish  joy  he  did  rejoice; 
As  one  will  joy  to  surely  learn 
His  dear,  dead  love  is  living  still; 
As  one  will  joy  to  know,  in  turn, 
He,  too,  is  loved  with  love  to  kill. 


He  put  a  hand  forth,  let  it  fall 
And  feebly  close;  and  that  was  all. 
And  then  he  turned  his  tearful  eyes 
To  meet  the  priest's,  and  spake  this  wiset- 


Now  mind,  I  say,  not  one  more  word 
That  livelong  night  of  nights  was  heard 


SUNSET    AND    DAWN    IN    SAN    DIEGO. 


277 


By  monk  or  man,  from  dusk  till  dawn; 
And  yet  that  man  spake  on  and  on. 

Why,  know  you  not,  soul  speaks  to  soul? 
I  say  the  use  of  words  shall  pass. 
Words  are  but  fragments  of  the  glass; 
But  silence  is  the  perfect  whole. 

And  thus  the  old  man,  bowed  and  wan, 
And  broken  in  his  body,  spake — 
Spake  youthful,  ardent,  on  and  on, 
As  dear  love  speaks  for  dear  love's  sake. 

"You  spake  of  her,  my  wife;  behold! 
Behold  niy  faithful,  constant  love! 
Nay,  nay,  you  shall  not  doubt  my  dove, 
Perched  there  above  your  cross  of  gold! 

"Yea,  you  have  books,  I  know,  to  tell 
Of  far,  fair  heaven;  but  no  hell 
To  her  had  been  so  terrible 
As  all  sweet  heaven,  with  its  gold 
And  jasper  gates,  and  great  white  throne> 
Had  she  been  banished  hence  alone. 


"  I  say,  not  God  himself  could  keep, 
Beyond  the  stars,  beneath  the  deep, 
Or  'mid  the  stars,  or  'mid  the  sea, 
Her  soul  from  my  soul  one  brief  day, 
But  she  would  find  some  pretty  way 
To  come  and  still  companion  me. 


"And  say,  where  bide  your  souls,  good 

priest? 

Lies  heaven  west,  lies  heaven  east? 
Let  us  be  frank,  let  us  be  fair; 
Where  is  your  heaven,  good  priest,  where? 


"Is  there  not  room,  is  there  not  place 
In  all  those  boundless  realms  of  space? 
Is  there  not  room  in  this  sweet  air, 


Room  'mid  my  trees,  room  anywhere, 
For  souls  that  love  us  thus  so  well, 
And  love  so  well  this  beauteous  world, 
But  that  they  must  be  headlong  hurled 
Down,  down,  to  undiscovered  hell? 

"Good  priest,   we  questioned  not  one 

word 

Of  all  the  holy  things  we  heard 
Down  in  your  pleasant  town  of  palins 
Long,     long     ago — sweet    chants,    sweet 

psalms, 

Sweet  incense,  and  the  solemn  rite 
Above  the  dear,  believing  dead. 
Nor  do  I  question  here  to-night 
One  gentle  word  you  may  have  said. 
I  would  not  doubt,  for  one  brief  hour, 
Your    word,    your    creed,    your    priestly 

power, 

Your  purity,  unselfish  zeal, 
But  there  be  fears  I  scorn  to  feel! 


"  Let  those  who  will,  seek  realms  above, 
Remote  from  all  that  heart  can  love, 
In  their  ignoble  dread  of  hell. 
Give  all,  good  priest,  in  charity; 
Give  heaven  to  all,  if  this  may  be, 
And  count  it  well,  and  very  well. 


"But  I — I  could  not  leave  this  spot 
Where  she  is  waiting  by  my  side. 
Forgive  me,  priest;  it  is  not  pride; 
There  is  no  God  where  she  is  not! 


"You   did    not    know   her   well.     Her 

creed 

Was  yours;  my  faith  it  was  the  same. 
My  faith  was  fair,  my  lands  were  broad. 
Far  down  where  yonder  palm-trees  rise 
We  two  together  worshiped  God 
From  childhood.     And  we  grew  in  deed, 
Devout  in  heart  as  well  as  name, 
And  loved  our  palm-set  paradise. 


278 


SUNSET   AND    DAWN    IN    SAN   DIEGO. 


"We  loved,  we  loved  all  things  on  earth, 
However  mean  or  miserable. 
We  knew  no  thing  that  had  not  worth, 
And  learned  to  know  no  need  of  hell. 


"Indeed,  good  priest,  so  much,  indeed, 
We  found  to  do,  we  saw  to  love, 
We  did  not  always  look  above 
As  is  commanded  in  your  creed, 
But  kept  in  heart  one  chiefest  care, 
To  make  this  fair  world  still  more  fair. 


"'Twas   then    that  meek,  pale  Saxon 

came; 

With  soulless  gray  and  greedy  eyes, 
A  snake's  eyes,  cunning,  cold,  and  wise, 
And  I — I  could  not  fight,  or  fly 
His  crafty  wiles,  at  all;  and  I — 
Enough,  enough!  I  signed  my  name. 


"  It  was  not  loss  of  pleasure,  place, 
Broad  lands,  or  the  serene  delight 
Of  doing  good,  that  made  long  night 
O'er  all  the  sunlight  of  her  face. 
But  there  be  little  things  that  feed 
A  woman's  sweetness,  day  by  day, 
That  strong  men  miss  not,  do  not  need, 
But,  shorn  of  all  can  go  their  way 
To  battle,  and  but  stronger  grow, 
As  grow  great  waves  that  gather  so. 


"She    missed    the    music,  missed  the 

song, 

The  pleasant  speech  of  courteous  men, 
Who  came  and  went,  a  comely  throng, 
Before  her  open  window,  when 
The  sea  sang  with  us,  and  we  two 
Had  heartfelt  homage,  warm  and  true. 


"  She  missed  the  restfulness,  the  rest 
Of  dulcet  silence,  the  delight 
Of  singing  silence,  when  the  town 


Put  on  its  twilight  robes  of  brown; 
When  twilight  wrapped  herself  in  night 
And  couched  against  the  curtained  west. 

"But  not  one  murmur,  not  one  word 
From  her  sweet  baby  lips  was  heard. 
She  only  knew  I  could  not  bear 
To  see  sweet  San  Diego  town, 
Her  palm-set  lanes,  her  pleasant  square, 
Her  people  passing  up  and  down, 
Without  black  hate,  and  deadly  hate 
For  him  who  housed  within  our  gate, 
And  so,  she  gently  led  my  feet 
Aside  to  this  high,  wild  retreat. 

41  How  pale  she  grew,  how  piteous  pale 
The    while    I    wrought,    and    ceaseless 

wrought 

To  keep  my  soul  from  bitter  thought, 
And  build  me  here  above  the  vale. 
Ah  me!  my  selfish,  Spanish  pride! 
Enough  of  pride,  enough  of  hate, 
Enough  of  her  sad,  piteous  fate: 
She  died:  right  here  she  sank  and  died. 

41  She  died,  and  with  her  latest  breath 
Did  promise  to  return  to  me, 
As  turns  a  dove  unto  her  tree 
To  find  her  mate  at  night  and  rest; 
Died,  clinging  close  against  my  breast; 
Died,  saying  she  would  surely  rise 
So  soon  as  God  had  loosed  her  eyes 
From  the  strange  wonderment  of  death. 

"  How  beautiful  is  death!  and  how 
Surpassing  good,  and  true,  and  fair! 
How  just  is  death,  how  gently  just, 
To  lay  his  sword  against  the  thread 
Of  life  when  life  is  surely  dead 
And  loose  the  sweet  soul  from  the  dust! 
I  laid  her  in  my  lorn  despair 
Beneath  that  dove,  that  orange-bough— 
How  strange  your  cross  should  stand  just 
there! 


SUNSET    AND    DAWN    IN    SAN   DIEGO. 


279 


"And  then  I  waited  hours  and  days: 
Those  bitter  days,  they  were  as  years. 
My  soul  groped  through  the  darkest  ways; 
I  scarce  could  see  God's  face  for  tears. 


"I  clutched  my  knife,  and  I  crept  down, 
A  wolf,  to  San  Diego  town. 
On,  on,  'mid  mine  own  palms  once  more, 
Keen  knife  in  hand,  I  crept  that  night. 
1  passed  the  gate,  then  fled  in  fright; 
Black  crape  hung  fluttered  from  the  door! 

"I  climbed  back  here,  with  heart  of 

stone: 

I  heard  next  morn  one  sweetest  tone; 
Looked  up,  and  lo!  there  on  that  bough 
She  perched,  as  she  sits  perching  now. 


"  I  heard  the  bells  peal  from  my  height, 
Peal  pompously,  peal  piously; 
Saw  sable  hearse,  in  plumes  of  night 
With  not  one  thought  of  hate  in  me. 

•'I  watched  the  long  train  winding  by, 
A  mournful,  melancholy  lie — 
A  sable,  solemn,  mourning  mile — 
And  only  pitied  him  the  while. 
For  she,  she  sang  that  whole  day  through: 
Sad-voiced,  as  if  she  pitied,  too. 


"They  said,  'His  work  is  done,  and  well. : 
They  laid  his  body  in  a  tomb 
Of  massive  splendor.     It  lies  there 
In  all  its  stolen  pomp  and  gloom — 
But  list!  his  soul — his  soul  is  where? 
In  hell!    In  hell!    But  where  is  hell? 


"  Hear  me  but  this.     Year  after  year 
She  trained  my  eye,  she  trained  my  ear; 
No  book  to  blind  my  eyes,  or  ought 
To  prate  of  hell,  where  hell  is  not, 


I  came  to  know  at  last,  and  well, 
Such  things  as  never  book  can  tell. 

"And  where  was  that  poor,  dismal  soul 
Ye  priests  had  sent  to  Paradise? 
I  heard  the  long  years  roll  and  roll, 
As  rolls  the  sea.     My  once  dimmed  eyes 
Grew  keen  as  long,  sharp  shafts  of  light. 
With  eager  eyes  and  reaching  face 
I  searched  the  stars  night  after  night: 
That  dismal  soul  was  not  in  space! 

"Meanwhile  my  green  trees  grew  and 

grew; 

And  sad  or  glad,  this  much  I  knew, 
It  were  no  sin  to  make  more  fair 
One  spot  on  earth,  to  toil  and  share 
With  man,  or  beast,  or  bird;  while  she 
Still  sang  her  soft,  sweet  melody. 

"One  day,  a  perfumed  day  in  white- 
Such  restful,  fresh,  and  friendlike  day,— 
Fair  Mexico  a  mirage  lay 
Far-lifted  in  a  sea  of  light — 
Soft,  purple  light,  so  far  away. 
I  turned  yon  pleasant  pathway  down, 
And  sauntered  leisurely  tow'rd  town. 

"  I  heard  my  dear  love  call  and  coo, 
And  knew  that  she  was  happy,  too, 
In  her  sad,  sweet,  and  patient  pain 
Of  waiting  till  I  came  again. 


"Aye,  I  was  glad,  quite  glad  at  last; 
Not  glad  as  I  had  been  when  she 
Walked  with  me  by  yon  palm-set  sea, 
But  sadly  and  serenely  glad: 
As  though  'twere  twilight  like,  as  though 
You  knew,  and  yet  you  did  not  know, 
That  sadness,  most  supremely  sad 
Should  lay  upon  you  like  a  pall, 
And  would  not,  could  not  pass  away 
Till  you  should  pass;  till  perfect  day 


280 


SUNSET    AND    DAWN    IN    SAN    DIEGO. 


Dawns  sudden  on  you,  and  the  call 
Of  birds  awakens  you  to  morn — 
A  babe  new-born;  a  soul  new-born. 

"Good  priest,  what  are  the  birds  for? 

Priest, 

Build  ye  your  heaven  west  or  east  ? 
Above,  below,  or  any  where? 
I  only  ask,  I  only  say 
She  sits  there,  waiting  for  the  day, 

The  fair,  full  day  to  guide  me  there. 

***** 

"What,  he?  That  creature?    Ah,  quite 

true! 

I  wandor  much,  I  weary  you : 
I  beg  your  pardon,  gentle  priest. 
Returning  up  the  stone-strewn  steep, 
Down  in  yon  jungle,  dank  and  deep, 
Where  toads  and  venomed  reptiles  creep, 
There,  there,  I  saw  that  hideous  beast! 

"Aye,  there!     coiled  there    beside   my 

road, 

Close  coiled  behind  a  monstrous  toad, 
A  huge  flat-bellied  reptile  hid! 
His  tongue  leapt  red  as  flame;  his  eyes, 
His  eyes  were  burning  hells  of  lies — 
His  head  was  like  a  coffin's  lid: 

'Saint  George!  Saint  George!    I  gasped 

for  breath. 
The    beast,   tight    coiled,    swift,    sudden 

sprang 

High  in  the  air,  and,  rattling,  sang 
His  hateful,  hissing  song  of  death! 

"My  eyes  met  his.     He  shrank,  he  fel\ 
Fell  sullenly  and  slow.     The  swell 
Of  braided,  brassy  neck  forgot 
Its  poise,  and  every  venomed  spot 
Lost  luster,  and  the  coffin  head 
Cowed  level  with  the  toad,  and  lay 
Low,  quivering  with  hate  and  dread: 
The  while  I  kept  my  upward  way. 

« '  What !  Should  have  killed  him  ?    Nay, 
good  priest. 


I  know  not  what  or  where  's  your  hell. 

But  be  it  west  or  be  it  east. 

His  hell  is  there!  and  that  is  well! 

•'Nay,  do  not,  do  not  question  me; 
I  could  not  tell  you  why  I  know; 
I  only  know  that  this  is  so, 
As  sure  as  God  is  equity. 

"Good  priest,  forgive  me,  and  good-by, 
The  stars  slow  gather  to  their  fold; 
I  see  God's  garment's  hem  of  gold 
Against  the  far,  faint  morning  sky. 

"Good,  holy  priest,  your  God  is  where? 
You  come  to  me  with  book  and  creed; 
I  cannot  read  your  book;  I  read 
Yon  boundless,  open  book  of  air. 
What  time,  or  way,  or  place  I  look, 
I  see  God  in  His  garden  walk; 
I  hear  Him  through  the  thunders  talk, 
As  once  He  talked,  with  burning  tongue, 
To  Moses,  when  the  world  was  young; 
And,  priest,  what  more  is  in  your  book? 

"Behold!  the  Holy  Grail  is  found, 
Found  in  each  poppy's  cup  of  gold; 
And  GoJ  walks  with  us  as  of  old. 
Behold!  the  burning  bush  still  burns 
For  man,  whichever  way  he  turns; 
And  all  God's  earth  is  holy  ground. 

"And— and— good  priest,  bend  low  your 

head, 

The  sands  are  crumbling  where  I  tread, 
Beside  the  shoreless,  soundless  sea. 
Good  priest,  you  came  to  pray,  you  said; 
And  now,  what  would  you  have  of  me  ? " 

The  good  priest  gently  raised  his  head, 
Then  bowed  it  low  and  softly  said: 
"Your  blessing,  son,  despite  the  ban." 
He  fell  before  the  dying  man; 
And  when  he  raised  his  face  from  prayer, 
Sweet  Dawn,  and  two  sweet  doves  were 
there. 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


28l 


SAPPHO  AND  PHAON. 
SONG  FIRST. 

11  In  the  beginning  God " 

When  God's  Spirit  moved  upon 
The  waters'  face,  and  vapors  curled 
Like  incense  o'er  deep-cradled  dawn 
That  dared  not  yet  the  mobile  world, 


When  deep-cradled  dawn  uprose, 
Ere  the  baby  stars  were  born, 
When  the  end  of  all  repose 
Came  with  that  first  wondrous  morn, — 

In  the  morning  of  the  world 
When  light  leapt, — a  giant  born: 
0  that  morning  of  the  world, 
That  vast,  first  tumultuous  morn  ! 


PART  FIRST. 

I. 

What  is  there  in  a  dear  dove's  eyes, 
Or  voice  of  mated  melodies, 
That  tells  us  ever  of  blue  skies 
And  cease  of  deluge  on  Love's  seas? 
The  dove  looked  down  on  Jordan's  tide 
Well  pleased  with  Christ  the  Crucified; 
The  dove  was  hewn  in  Karnak  stone 
Before  fair  Jordan's  banks  were  known. 
The  dove  has  such  a  patient  look, 
I  read  rest  in  her  pretty  eyes 
As  in  the  Holy  Book. 

I  think  if  I  should  love  some  day — 
And  may  I  die  when  dear  Love  dies — 
Why,  I  would  sail  Francisco's  Bay 
And  seek  to  see  some  sea-dove's  eyes: 
To  see  her  in  her  air-built  nest, 


Her  wide,  warm,  restful  wings  at  rest; 

To  see  her  rounded  neck  reach  out, 

Her  eyes  lean  lovingly  about; 

And  seeing  this  as  love  can  see, 

I  then  should  know,  and  surely  know, 

That  love  sailed  on  with  me. 


II. 

See  once  this  boundless  bay  and  live, 
See  once  this  beauteous  bay  and  love, 
See  once  this  warm,  bright  bay  and  give 
God  thanks  for  olive  branch  and  dove. 
Then  plunge  headlong  yon  sapphire  sea 
And  sail  and  sail  the  world  with  me. 
Some  isles,    drowned    in    the    drowning 

sun, 

Ten  thousand  sea-doves  voiced  as  one; 
Lo!  love's  wings   furled   and   wings  un 
furled; 


282 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


Who  sees  not  this  -warm,  half-world  sea, 
not,  knows  not  the  world. 


How  knocks  he  at  the  Golden  Gate, 
This  lord  of  waters,  strong  and  bold, 
And  fearful-voiced  and  fierce  as  fate, 
And  hoar  and  old,  as  Time  is  old; 
Yet  young  as  when  God's  finger  lay 
Against  Night's  forehead  that  first  day, 
And  drove  vast  Darkness  forth,  and  rent 
The  waters  from  the  firmament. 
Hear  how  he  knocks  and  raves  and  loves! 
He  wooes  us  through  the  Golden  Gate 
With  all  his  soft  sea-doves. 

Now  on  and  on,  up,  down,  and  on, 
The  sea  is  oily  grooves;  the  air 
Is  as  your  bride's  sweet  breath  at  dawn 
When  all  your  ardent  youth  is  there. 
And  oh,  the  rest!  and  oh,  the  room! 
And  oh,  the  sensuous  sea  perfume! 
Yon  new  moon  peering  as  we  passed 
Has  scarce  escaped  our  topmost  mast. 
A  porpoise,  wheeling  restlessly, 
Quick    draws  a  bright,  black,    dripping 

blade, 
Then  sheathes  it  in  the  sea. 


Vast,  half -world,  wondrous  sea  of  ours! 
Dread,  unknown  deep  of  all  sea  deeps! 
What    fragrance    from  thy  strange    sea- 
flowers 

Deep-gardened  where  God's  silence  keeps! 
Thy  song  is  silence,  and  thy  face 
Is  God's  face  in  His  holy  place. 
Thy  billows  swing  sweet  censer  foam, 
Where  stars  hang  His  cathedral's  dome. 
Such  blue  above,  below  such  blue! 
These  burly  winds  so  tall,  they  can 
Scarce  walk  between  the  two. 

Such  room  of  sea!     Such  room  of  sky! 
Such  room  to  draw  a  soul-full  breath! 
Such  room  to  live!    Such  room  to  die! 


Such  room  to  roam  in  after  death! 
White    room,    with    sapphire     room    set 

'round, 

And  still  beyond  His  room  profound; 
Such  room-bound  boundlessness  o'erhead 
As  never  has  been  writ  or  said 
Or  seen,  save  by  the  favored  few, 
Where  kings  of  thought  play  chess  with 

stars 
Across  their  board  of  blue. 


in. 

The  proud  ship  wrapped  her  in  the  red 
That  hung  from  heaven,  then  the  gray, 
The  soft  dove-gray  that  shrouds  the  dead 
And  prostrate  form  of  perfumed  day: 
Some  noisy,  pigmy  creatures  kept 
The  deck  a  spell,  then,  leaning,  crept 
Apart  in  silence  and  distrust, 
Then  down  below  in  deep  disgust. 
An  albatross, — a  shadow  cross 
Hung  at  the  head  of  buried  day, — 
At  foot  the  albatross. 


Then  came  a  warm,  soft,  sultry  breath — 
A  weary  wind  that  wanted  rest; 
A  breath  as  from  some  house  of  death 
With  flowers  heaped;  as  from  the  breast 
Of  such  sweet  princess  as  had  slept 
Some  thousand  years  embalmed,  and  kept, 
In  fearful  Karnak's  tomb-hewn  hill, 
Her  perfume  and  spiced  sweetness  still, — 
Such  breath  as  bees  droop  down  to  meet, 
And  creep  along  lest  it  may  melt 
Their  honey-laden  feet. 

The  captain's  trumpet  smote  the  air! 
Swift  men,  like  spiders  up  a  thread, 
Swept  suddenly.     Then  masts  were  bare 
As  when  tall  poplars'  leaves  are  shed, 
And  ropes  were  clamped  and   stays  were 

clewed. 
'T  was  as  when  wrestlers,  iron-thewed, 


Such  room  of  sea!  Such  room  of  sky! 
Such  room  to  draw  a  soul-full  breath! 
Such  room  to  live!  Such  room  to  die! 
Such  room  to  roam  in  after  death! 


282 


oom  to  roam  in  after  death! 
room,    with   sapphire    room    set 
'rcr; 
And  still  beyond  His  room  profound; 

bound  boundlessness  o'erhead 
As  never  has  been  writ  or  said 

on,  save  by  the  favored  few, 
Where  kings  of  thought  play  chess  with 

Across  their  board  of  blue. 


A  porpoise,  wl 
Quick    draws 

blade, 
Then  sheathes 


Vast,  half -world,  w- 
Dread,  unknown  deep 
What  fragrance  from  i 

flowers 

Deep-gardened  where  God's 
Thy  song  is  silence,  and  th^r 
Is  God's  face  in  His  holy  plao*. 
Thy  billows  swing  sweet  cei; 
Where  stars  hang  His  oathe. 
Such  blue  above,  below  sucL 
These  burly  winds  so  tall,  t) 
Scarce  walk  between  the  two. 

Such  room  of  sea!    Such  room 
u  room  to  draw  a  soul-full  brc 
; m  to  live!     Suoh  n 


III. 


1  ship  wrapped  her  in  the  red 
bung  from  heaven,  then  the  gray, 

>ve-gray  that  shrouds  the  dead 
trateform  of  perfumed  day: 

creatures  kept 
11,  then,  leaning,  crept 
,Vad  distrust, 
».*»&  deep  disgust. 
-...w-i^H&i'.lo'.v  cross 


sultry  breath — 

Q.B  from  the  breast 
.  .-os.i  as  had  slept 
;-ars  embalmed,  and  kept, 

•b-hewn  hill, 
.pic«d  sweetness  still, — 
•«*  droop  down  to  meet, 

may  melt 
feet. 

.rapet  smote  the  air! 

.  up  a  thread, 
Then  masts  were  bare 
.  wh*< 

»«•  wore  clamped  and   stays  were 


wai  as  stlers,  iron-thewed, 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


Gird  tight  their  loins,  take  full  breath, 
And  set  firm  face,  as  fronting  death. 
Three    small  brown  birds,    or   gray,    so 

small, 

So  ghostly  still  and  swift  they  passed, 
They  scarce  seemed  birds  at  all. 


Then  quick,  keen  saber-cuts,  like  ice; 
Then  sudden  hail,  like  battle-shot, 
Then  two  last  men  crept  down  like  mice, 
And  man,  poor  pigmy  man,  was  not. 
The  great  ship  shivered,  as  with  cold — 
An  instant  staggered  back,  then  bold 
As  Theodosia,  to  her  waist 
In  waters,  stood  erect  and  faced 
Black  thunder;  and  she  kept  her  way 
And  laughed  red  lightning  from  her  face 
As  on  some  gala  day. 

The  black  sea-horses  rode  in  row; 
Their  white  manes  tossing  to  the  night 
But  made  the  blackness  blacker  grow 
From  flashing,  phosphorescent  light. 
And  how  like  hurdle  steeds  they  leapt! 
The   low    moon    burst;  the  black  troop 

swept 

Right  through  her  hollow,  on  and  on. 
A  wave-wet  simitar  was  drawn, 
Flashed  twice,  flashed  thrice  triumphantly, 
But  still  the  steeds  dashed  on,  dashed  on, 
And  drowned  her  in  the  sea. 


What  headlong  winds  that  lost  their  way 
At  sea,  and  wailed  out  for  the  shore! 
How  shook  the  orient  doors  of  day 
With  all  this  mad,  tumultuous  roar! 
Black  clouds,  shot  through  with  stars   of 

red; 

Strange  stars,  storm-born  and  fire  fed; 
Lost  stars  that  came,  and  went,  and  came; 
Such  stars  as  never  yet  had  name. 


The  far  sea-lions  on  their  isles 
Upheaved  their  huge  heads  terrified, 
And  moaned  a  thousand  miles. 

What  fearful  battle-field!     What  space 
For  light  and  darkness,  flame  and  flood! 
Lo!  Light  and  Darkness,  face  to  face, 
In  battle  harness  battling  stood! 
And  how  the  surged  sea  burst  upon 
The  granite  gates  of  Oregon!  * 
It  tore,  it  tossed  the  seething  spume, 
And  wailed  for  room!  and  room!  and  room! 
It  shook  the  crag-built  eaglets'  nest 
Until  they  screamed  from  out  their  clouds, 
Then  rocked  them  back  to  rest. 

How  fiercely  reckless  raged  the  war! 
Then  suddenly  no  ghost  of  light, 
Or  even  glint  of  storm-born  star. 
Just  night,  and  black,  torn  bits  of  night  j 
Just  night,  and  midnight's  middle  noon, 
With  all  mad  elements  in  tune; 
Just  night,  and  that  continuous  roar 
Of  wind,  wind,  night,  and  nothing  more. 
Then  all  the  hollows  of  the  main 
Sank  down  so  deep,  it  almost  seemed 
The  seas  were  hewn  in  twain. 

How  deep  the  hollows  of  this  deep! 
How  high,  how  trembling  high  the  crest! 
Ten  thousand  miles  of  surge  and  sweep 
And  length  and  breadth  of  billow's  breast! 
Up!  up,  as  if  against  the  skies! 
Down!  down,  as  if  no  more  to  rise! 
The  creaking  wallow  in  the  trough, 
As  if  the  world  was  breaking  off. 
The  pigmies  in  their  trough  down  there! 
Deep  in  their  trough  they  tried  to  pray — 
To  hide  from  God  in  prayer. 

Then  boomed  Alaska's  great,  first  gun 
In  battling  ice  and  rattling  hail; 


*  There  is  a  small  granite  island,  or  great  rock  standing  on  pillars,  eight  miles  off  Cape  Blanco.    Fishermen 
may  row  their  boats  between  these  columns  and  they  call  the  rock  The  Gates. 


284 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


Then  Indus  came,  four  winds  in  one! 
Then  came  Japan  in  counter  mail 
Of  mad  cross  winds;  and  Waterloo 
Was  but  as  some  babe's  tale  unto. 
The  typhoon  spun  his  toy  in  play 
And  whistled  as  a  glad  boy  may 
To  see  his  top  spin  at  his  feet: 
The  captain  on  his  bridge  in  ice, 
His  sailors  mailed  in  sleet. 


What    unchained,     unnamed     noises, 

space! 

What  shoreless,  boundless,  rounded  reach 
Of  room  was  here!    Fit  field,  fit  place 
For  three  fierce  emperors,  where  each 
Came  armed  with  elements  that  make 
Or  unmake  seas  and  lands,  that  shake 
The  heavens'  roof,  that  freeze  or  burn 
The  seas  as  they  may  please  to  turn. 
And  such  black  silence!     Not  a  sound 
Save  whistling  of  that  mad,  glad  boy 
To  see  his  top  spin  round. 


Then  swift,  like  some  sulked  Ajax,  burst 
Thewed  Thunder  from  his  battle-tent; 
As  if  in  pent-up,  vengeful  thirst 
For  blood,  the  elements  of  Earth  were  rent, 
And  sheeted  crimson  lay  a  wedge 
Of  blood  below  black  Thunder's  edge. 
A  pause.    Thetyphoon  turned,  upwheeled, 
And  wrestled  Death  till  heaven  reeled. 
Then  Lightning  reached  a  fiery  red, 
And  on  Death's  fearful  forehead  wrote 
The  autograph  of  God. 


IV. 

God's  name  and    face — what    need  of 

more? 

Morn  came:  calm  came;  and  holy  light, 
And  warm,  sweet  weather,  leaning  o'er, 
Laid  perfumes  on  the  tomb  of  night. 
The  three  wee  birds  came  dimly  back 
And  housed  about  the  mast  in  black, 


And  all  the  tranquil  sense  of  morn 
Seemed  as  Dakota's  fields  of  corn, 
Save  that  some  great  soul-breaking  sigh 
Now  sank  the  proud  ship  out  of  sight 
Now  sent  her  to  the  sky. 


V. 

One  strong,  strange  man  had  kept  the 

deck- 
One  silent,  seeing  man,  who  knew 
The  pulse  of  Nature,  and  could  reck 
Her    deepest     heart-beats    through     and 

through. 

He  knew  the  night,  he  loved  the  night. 
When  elements  went  forth  to  fight 
His  soul  went  with  them  without  fear 
To  hear  God's  voice,  so  few  will  hear 
The  swine  had  plunged  them  in  the  sea, 
The  swine  down  there,  but  up  on  deck 
The  captain,  God  and  he. 


VI. 

And  oh,  such  sea-shell  tints  of  light 
High  o'er  those  wide  sea-doors  of  dawn! 
Sail,  sail  the  world  for  that  one  sight, 
Then  satisfied,  let  time  begone. 
The  ship  rose  up  to  meet  that  light, 
Bright  candles,  tipped  like  tasseled  corn, 
The  holy  virgin,  maiden  morn, 
Arrayed  in  woven  gold  and  white. 
Put  by  the  harp— hush  minstrelsy; 
Nor  bard  or  bird  has  yet  been  heard 
To  sing  this  scene,  this  sea. 

VII. 

Such  light!  such  liquid,  molten  light! 
Such  mantling,  healthful,  heartful  morn! 
Such  morning  born  of  such  mad  night! 
Such  night  as  never  had  been  born! 
The  man  caught  in  his  breath,  his  face 
Was  lifted  up  to  light  and  space; 
His  hand  dashed  o'er  his  brow,  as  when 
Deep  thoughts  submerge  the  souls  of  men; 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


And  then  be  bowed,  bowed  mute,  appalled 
At  memory  of  scenes,  such  scenes 
As  this  swift  morn  recalled. 

He  sought  the  ship's  prow,  as  men  seek 
The  utmost  limit  for  their  feet, 
To  lean,  look  forth,  to  list  nor  speak, 
Nor  turn  aside,  nor  yet  retreat 
One  inch  from  this  far  vantage-ground, 
Till  he  had  pierced  the  dread  profound 
And  proved  it  false.    And  yet  he  knew 
Deep  in  his  earth  that  all  was  true; 
So  like  it  was  to  that  first  dawn 
When  God  had  said,  "  Let  there  be  light," 
And  thus  he  spake  right  on: 

"My  soul  was  born  ere  light  was  born, 
When  blackness  was,  as  this  black  night. 
And  then  that  morn,  as  this  sweet  morn! 
That  sudden  light,  as  this  swift  light! 
I  had  forgotten.    Now,  I  know 
The  travail  of  the  world,  the  low, 
Dull  creatures  in  the  sea  of  slime 
That  time  committed  unto  time, 
As  great  men  plant  oaks  patiently, 
Then  turn  in  silence  unto  dust 
And  wait  the  coming  tree. 

"That  long,  lorn  blackness,  seams  of 

flame, 

Volcanoes  bursting  from  the  slime, 
Huge,  shapeless  monsters  without  name 
Slow  shaping  in  the  loom  of  time; 
Slow  weaving  as  a  weaver  weaves; 
So  like  as  when  some  good  man  leaves 
His  acorns  to  the  centuries 
And  waits  the  stout  ancestral  trees. 
But  ah,  so  piteous,  memory 
Reels  back,  as  sickened,  from  that  scene — 
It  breaks  the  heart  of  me! 


"Volcanoes  crying  out  for  light! 
The  very  slime  found  tongues  of  fire!* 
Huge  monsters  climbing  in  their  might 
O'er  submerged  monsters  in  the  mire 
That  heaved  their  slimy  mouths,  and  cried 
And  cried  for  light,  and  crying,  died. 
How  all  that  wailing  through  the  air 
But  seems  as  some  unbroken  prayer. 
One  ceaseless  prayer  that  long  night 
The  world  lay  in  the  loom  of  time 
And  waited  so  for  light! 


"  And  I,  amid  those  monsters  there, 
A  grade  above,  or  still  below  ? 
Nay,  Time  has  never  time  to  care; 
And  I  can  scarcely  dare  to  know. 
I  but  remember  that  one  prayer; 
Ten  thousand  wide  mouths  in  the  air, 
Ten  thousand  monsters  in  their  might, 
All  eyeless,  looking  up  for  light. 
We  prayed,  we  prayed  as  never  man, 
By  sea  or  land,  by  deed  or  word, 
Has  prayed  since  light  began. 

"  Great  sea-cows  laid  their  fins  upon 
Low-floating  isles,  as  good  priests  lay 
Two  holy  hands,  at  early  dawn, 
Upon  the  altar  cloth  to  pray. 
Aye,  ever  so,  with  lifted  head, 
Poor,  slime-born  creatures  and  slime-bred, 
We  prayed.     Our  sealed-up  eyes  of  night 
All  lifting,  lifting  up  for  light. 
And  I  have  paused  to  wonder,  when 
This  world  will  pray  as  we  then  prayed, 
What  God  may  not  give  men! 

"Hist!    Once  I  saw, — What  was  I  then  ? 
Ah,  dim  and  devious  the  light 
Comes  back,  but  I  was  not  of  men. 
And  it  is  only  such  black  night 


*  I  saw  this  when  with  Capt.  Eads  at  the  mouth  of  our  great  river.  The*  debris  of  more  than  a  dozen  States 
pouring  into  the  warm  waters  of  the  Mexican  seas  creates  fermentation  which  finds  expression  in  volcanoes  that 
spring  flaming  up  out  of  the  sea  almost  nightly.  I  know  nothing  so  terrible  as  certain  nights  in  the  Mississippi 
delta. 


286 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


As  this,  that  was  of  war  and  strife 
Of  elements,  can  wake  that  life, 
That  life  in  death,  that  black  and  cold 
And  blind  and  loveless  life  of  old. 
But  hear!     I  saw — heed  this  and  learn 
How  old,  how  holy  old  is  Love, 
However  Time  may  turn: 

"I  saw,  I  saw,  or  somehow  felt, 
A  sea-cow  mother  nurse  her  young. 
I  saw,  and  with  thanksgiving  knelt, 
To  see  her  head,  low,  loving,  hung 
Above  her  nursling.     Then  the  light, 
The  lovelight  from  those  eyes  of  night! 
I  say  to  you  't  was  lovelight  then 
That  first  lit  up  the  eyes  of  men. 


I  say  to  you  lovelight  was  born 
Ere  God  laid  hand  to  clay  of  man, 
Or  ever  that  first  morn. 

"  What  though  a  monster  slew  her  so, 
The  while  she   bowed  and   nursed   her 

young? 

She  leaned  her  head  to  take  the  blow, 
And  dying,  still  the  closer  clung — 
And  dying  gave  her  1'ife  to  save 
The  helpless  life  she  erstwhile  gave, 
And  so  sank  back  below  the  slime, 
A  torn  shred  in  the  loom  of  time. 
The  one  thing  more  I  needs  must  say, 
That  monster  slew  her  and  her  young; 
But  Love  he  could  not  slay." 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON.  287 


SONG  SECOND. 
"And  God  said,  Let  there  be  light." 

Else  up!    How  brief  this  little  day? 
We  can  but  kindle  some  dim  light 
Here  in  the  darkened,  wooded  way 
Before  the  gathering  of  night. 
Come,  let  us  kindle  it.     The  dawn 
Shall  find  us  tenting  farther  on. 
Come,  let  us  kindle  ere  we  go — 
We  know  not  ivhere;  but  this  we  know . 
Night  cometh  on,  and  man  needs  light. 
Come!  camp-fire  embers,  ere  we  grope 
Yon  gray  archway  of  night. 

Life  is  so  brief,  so  very  brief, 
So  rounded  in,  we  scarce  can  see 
The  fruitage  grown  about  the  leaf 
And  foliage  of  a  single  tree 
In  all  God's  garden;  yet  we  know 
That  goodly  fruits  must  grow  and  grow 
Beyond  our  vision.      We  but  stand 
In  some  deep  holloio  of  God's  hand, 
Hear  some  sweet  bird  its  little  day, 
See  cloud  and  sun  a  season  pass, 
And  then,  sweet  friend,  away! 

Clouds  pass,  they  come  again;  and  we, 
Are  we,  then,  less  than  these  to  God? 
Oh,  for  the  stout  faith  of  a  tree 
That  drops  its  small  seeds  to  the  sod, 
Safe  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand, 
And  knows  that  perish  from  the  land 
It  shall  not !      Yea,  this  much  we  know, 
That  each,  as  best  it  can,  shall  grow 
As  God  has  fashioned,  fair  or  plain, 
To  do  its  best,  or  cloud  or  sun, 
Or  in  His  still,  small  rain. 


288 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


Oh,  good  to  see  is  faith  in  God! 
But  belter  far  is  faith  in  good: 
The  one  seems  but  a  sign,  a  nod, 
The  one  seems  God's  own  flesh  and  blood. 
How  many  names  of  God  are  sung! 
But  good  is  good  in  every  tongue. 
And  this  the  light,  the  Holy  Light 
That  leads  thro'  night  and  night  and  night; 
Thro'  nights  named  Death,  that  lie  between 
The  days  named  Life,  the  ladder  round 
Unto  the  Infinite  Unseen. 


PART  SECOND. 


The  man  stood  silent,  peering  past 
His  utmost  verge  of  memory. 
What  lay  beyond,  beyond  that  vast 
Bewildering  darkness  and  dead  sea 
Of  noisome  vapors  and  dread  night  ? 
No  light!  not  any  sense  of  light 
Beyond  that  life  when  Love  was  born 
On  that  first,  far,  dim  rim  of  morn: 
No  light  beyond  that  beast  that  clung 
In  darkness  by  the  light  of  love 
And  died  to  save  her  young. 


And  yet  we  know  life  must  have  been 
Before  that  dark,  dread  life  of  pain; 
Life  germs,  love  germs  of  gentle  men, 
So  small,  so  still;  as  still,  small  rain. 
But  whence  this  life,  this  living  soul, 
This  germ  that  grows  a  godlike  whole? 
I  can  but  think  of  that  sixth  day 
When  God  first  set  His  hand  to  clay, 
And  did  in  His  own  image  plan 
A  perfect  form,  a  manly  form, 
A  comely,  godlike  man. 


II. 

Did  soul  germs  grow  down  in  the  deeps, 
The  while  God's  Spirit  moved  upon 
The  waters  ?    High-set  Lima  keeps 


A  rose-path,  like  a  ray  of  dawn; 
And  simple,  pious  peons  say 
Sweet  Santa  Rosa  passed  that  way; 
And  so,  because  of  her  fair  fame 
And  saintly  face,  these  roses  came. 
Shall  we  not  say,  ere  that  first  morn, 
Where  God  moved,  garmented  in  mists, 
Some  sweet  soul  germs  were  born? 

in. 

The  strange,  strong  man  still  kept  the 

prow; 

He  saw,  still  saw  before  light  was, 
The  dawn  of  love,  the  huge  sea-cow, 
The  living  slime,  love's  deathless  laws. 
He  knew  love  lived,  lived  ere  a  blade 
Of  grass,  or  ever  light  was  made; 
And  love  was  in  him,  of  him,  as 
The  light  was  on  the  sea  of  glass. 
It  made  his  heart  great,  and  he  grew 
To  look  on  God  all  unabashed; 
To  look  lost  eons  through. 

IV. 

Illuming  love!  what  talisman! 
That   Word  which  makes   the  world  go 

'round! 

That  Word  which  bore  worlds  in  its  plan! 
That  Word  which  was  the  Word  profound! 
That  Word  which  was  the  great  First 

Cause, 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


289 


Before  light  was,  before  sight  was! 
I  would  not  barter  love  for  gold 
Enough  to  fill  a  tall  ship's  hold; 
Nay,  not  for  great  Victoria's  worth- 
So  great  the  sun  sets  not  upon 
In  all  his  round  of  earth. 


I  would  not  barter  love  for  all 
The  silver  spilling  from  the  moon; 
I  would  not  barter  love  at  all 
Though  you  should  coin  each  afternoon 
Of  gold  for  centuries  to  be, 
And  count  the  coin  all  down  as  free 
As  conqueror  fresh  home  from  wars, — 
Coin  sunset  bars,  coin  heaven-born  stars, 
Coin  all  below,  coin  all  above, 
Count  all  down  at  my  feet,  yet  I — 
I  would  not  barter  love. 


v. 

The  lone  man  started,  stood  as  when 
A  strong  man  hears,  yet  does  not  hear. 
He  raised  his  hand,  let  fall,  and  then 
Quick  arched  his  hand  above  his  ear 
And  leaned  a  little;  yet  no  sound 
Broke  through  the  vast,  serene  profound. 
Man's  soul  first  knew  some  telephone 
In  sense  and  language  all  its  own. 
The  tall  man  heard,  yet  did  not  hear; 
He  saw,  and  yet  he  did  not  see 
A  fair  face  near  and  dear. 


For  there,  half  hiding,  crouching  there 
Against  the  capstan,  coils  on  coils 
Of  rope,  some  snow  still  in  her  hair, 
Like  Time,  too  eager  for  his  spoils, 
Was  such  fair  face  raised  to  his  face 
As  only  dream  of  dreams  give  place; 
Such  shyness,  boldness,  sea-shell  tint, 
Such  book  as  only  God  may  print, 
Such  tender,  timid,  holy  look 
Of  startled  love  and  trust  and  hope, — 
A  gold-bound  story-book. 


And  while  the  great  ship  rose  and  fell, 
Or  rocked  or  rounded  with  the  sea, 
He  saw, — a  little  thing  to  tell, 
An  idle,  silly  thing,  maybe, — 
Where  her  right  arm  was  bent  to  clasp 
Her  robe's  fold  in  some  closer  clasp, 
A  little  isle  of  melting  snow 
That  round  about  and  to  and  fro 
And  up  and  down  kept  eddying. 
It  told  so  much,  that  idle  isle, 
Yet  such  a  little  thing. 


It  told  she,  too,  was  of  a  race 
Born  ere  the  baby  stars  were  born; 
She,  too,  familiar  with  God's  face, 
Knew  folly  but  to  shun  and  scorn; 
She,  too,  all  night  had  sat  to  read 
By  heaven's  light,  to  hear,  to  heed 
The  awful  voice  of  God,  to  grow 
In  thought,  to  see,  to  feel,  to  know 
The  harmony  of  elements 
That  tear  and  toss  the  sea  of  seas 
To  foam-built  battle-tents. 


He  saw  that  drifting  isle  of  snow, 
As  some  lorn  miner  sees  bright  gold 
Seamed  deep  in  quartz,  and  joys  to  know 
That  here  lies  hidden  wealth  untold. 
And  now  his  head  was  lifted  strong, 
As  glad  men  lift  the  head  in  song. 
He  knew  sne,  too,  had  spent  the  night 
As  he,  in  all  that  wild  delight 
Of  tuneful  elements;  she,  too, 
He  knew,  was  of  that  olden  time 
Ere  oldest  stars  were  new. 


VI. 

Her  soul's  ancestral  book  bore  date 
Beyond  the  peopling  of  the  moon, 
Beyond  the  day  when  Saturn  sate 
In  royal  cincture,  and  the  boon 
Of  light  and  life  bestowed  on  stars 
And  satellites;  ere  martial  Mars 


290 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


Waxed  red  with  battle  rage,  and  shook 
The  porch  of  heaven  with  a  look; 
Ere  polar  ice-shafts  propt  gaunt  earth, 
And  slime  was  but  the  womb  of  time, 
That  knew  not  yet  of  birth. 


VII. 

To  be  what  thou  wouldst  truly  be, 
Be  bravely,  truly,  what  thou  art. 
The  acorn  houses  the  huge  tree, 
And  patient,  silent  bears  its  part, 
And  bides  the  miracle  of  time. 
For  miracle,  and  more  sublime 
It  is  than  all  that  has  been  writ, 
To  see  the  great  oak  grow  from  it. 
But  thus  the  soul  grows,  grows  the  heart, — 
To  be  what  thou  wouldst  truly  be, 
Be  truly  what  thou  art. 

To  be  what  thou  wouldst  truly  be, 
Be  true.    God's  finger  sets  each  seed, 
Or  when  or  where  we  may  not  see; 
But  God  shall  nourish  to  its  need 
Each  one,  if  but  it  dares  be  true; 
To  do  what  it  is  set  to  do. 
Thy  proud  soul's  heraldry  ?    'T  is  writ 
In  every  gentle  action;  it 
Can  never  be  contested.    Time 
Dates  thy  brave  soul's  ancestral  book 
From  thy  first  deed  sublime. 

VIII. 

Wouldst  learn  to  know  one  little  flower, 
Its  perfume,  perfect  form  and  hue? 
Yea,  wouldst  thou  have  one  perfect  hour 
Of  all  the  years  that  come  to  you  ? 
Then  grow  as  God  hath  planted,  grow 
A  lordly  oak  or  daisy  low, 
As  He  hath  set  His  garden;  be 
Just  what  thou  art,  or  grass  or  tree. 
Thy  treasures  up  in  heaven  laid 
Await  thy  sure  ascending  soul, 
Life  after  life,— be  not  afraid! 


IX. 

Wouldst  know  the  secrets  of  the  soil? 
Wouldst  have  Earth  bare  her  breast  to 

you? 

Wouldst  know  the  sweet  rest  of  hard  toil  ? 
Be  true,  be  true,  be  ever  true! 
Ah  me,  these  self-made  cuts  of  wrong 
That  hew  men  down!    Behold  the  strong 
And  comely  Adam  bound  with  lies 
And  banished  from  his  paradise! 
The  serpent  on  his  belly  still 
Eats  dirt  through  all  his  piteous  days, 
Do  penance  as  he  will. 

Poor,   heel-bruised,  prostrate,  tortuous 

snake! 

What  soul  crawls  here  upon  the  ground  ? 
God  willed  this  soul  at  birth  to  take 
The  round  of  beauteous  things,  the  round 
Of  earth,  the  round  of  boundless  skies. 
It  lied,  and  lo!  how  low  it  lies! 
What  quick,  sleek  tongue  to  lie  with  here! 
Wast  thou  a  broker  but  last  year  ? 
Wast  known  to  fame,  wast  rich  and  proud  ? 
Didst  live  a  lie  that  thou  mightst  die 
With  pockets  in  thy  shroud? 


Be  still,  be  pitiful!  that  soul 
May  yet  be  rich  in  peace  as  thine. 
Yea,  as  the  shining  ages  roll 
That  rich  man's  soul  may  rise  and  shine 
Beyond  Orion;  yet  may  reel 
The  Pleiades  with  belts  of  steel 
That  compass  commerce  in  their  reach; 
May  learn  and  learn,  and  learning,  teach, 
The  while  his  soul  grows  grandly  old, 
How  nobler  far  to  share  a  crust 
Than  hoard  car-loads  of  gold! 

XI. 

Oh,  but  to  know;  to  surely  know 
How  strangely  beautiful  is  light! 
How  just  one  gleam  of  light  will  glow 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


291 


And  grow  more  beautifully  bright 
Than  all  the  gold  that  ever  lay 
Below  the  wide-arched  Milky  Way! 
"Let  there  be  light!"  and  lo!  the  burst 
Of  light  in  answer  to  the  first 
Command  of  high  Jehovah's  voice! 
Let  there  be  light  for  man  to-night, 
That  all  men  may  rejoice. 

XII. 

The  little  isle  of  ice  and  snow 
That  in  her  gathered  garment  lay, 
And  dashed  and  drifted  to  and  fro 
Unhindered  of  her,  went  its  way. 
The  while  the  warm  winds  of  Japan 
Were  with  them,  and  the  silent  man 
Stood  by  her,  saying,  hearing  naught, 
Yet  seeing,  noting  all;  as  one 
Sees  not,  yet  all  day  sees  the  sun. 
He  knew  her  silence,  heeded  well 
Her  dignity  of  idle  hands 
In  this  deep,  tranquil  spell. 

XIII. 

The  true  soul  surely  knows  its  own, 
Deep  down  in  this  man's  heart  he  knew. 
Somehow,  somewhere  along  the  zone 
Of  time,  his  soul  should  come  unto 
Its  safe  seaport,  some  pleasant  land 
Of  rest  where  she  should  reach  a  hand. 
He  had  not  questioned  God.     His  care 
Was  to  be  worthy,  fit  to  share 
The  glory,  peace,  and  perfect  rest, 
Come  how  or  when  or  where  it  comes, 
As  God  in  time  sees  best. 

Her  face  reached  forward,  not  to  him, 
But  forward,  upward,  as  for  light; 
For  light  that  lay  a  silver  rim 
Of  sea-lit  whiteness  more  than  white. 
The  vast  full  morning  poured  and  spilled 
Its  splendor  down,  and  filled  and  filled 
And  overfilled  the  heaped-up  sea 
With  silver  molten  suddenly. 


The  night  lay  trenched  in  her  meshed 

hair; 

The  tint  of  sea-shells  left  the  sea 
To  make  her  more  than  fair. 

What  massed,  what  matchless  midnight 

hair! 

Her  wide,  sweet,  sultry,  drooping  mouth, 
As  droops  some  flower  when  the  air 
Blows  odors  from  the  ardent  South — 
That  Sapphic,  sensate,  bended  bow 
Of  deadly  archery;  as  though 
Love's  legions  fortressed  there  and  sent 
Eed  arrows  from  his  bow  fell  bent. 
Such  apples!  such  sweet  fruit  concealed 
Of  perfect  womanhood  make  more 
Sweet  pain  than  if  revealed. 

XIV. 

How  good  a  thing  it  is  to  house 
Thy  full  h«art  treasures  to  that  day 
When  thou  shalt  take  her,  and  carouse 
Thenceforth  with  her  for  aye  and  aye; 
How  good  a  thing  to  give  the  store 
That  thus  the  thousand  years  or  more, 
Poor,  hungered,  holy  worshiper, 
You  kept  for  her,  and  only  her! 
How  well  with  all  thy  wealth  to  wait 
Or  year,  or  thousand  thousand  years, 
Her  coming  at  love's  gate! 

xv. 

The  winds  pressed  warm  from    warn* 

Japan 

Upon  her  pulsing  womanhood. 
They  fanned  such  fires  in  the  man 
His  face  shone  glory  where  he  stood. 
In  Persia's  rose-fields,  I  have  heard, 
There  sings  a  sad,  sweet,  one-winged 
Sings  ever  sad  in  lonely  round 
Until  his  one- winged  mate  is  found; 
And  then,  side  laid  to  side,  they  rise 
So  swift,  so  strong,  they  even  dare 
The  doorway  of  the  skies. 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


XVI. 

How  rich  was  he!  how  richer  she! 
Such  treasures  up  in  heaven  laid, 
Where  moth  and  rust  may  never  be, 
Nor  thieves  break  in,  or  make  afraid. 
Such  treasures,  where  the  tranquil  soul 
Walks  space,  nor  limit  nor  control 
Can  know,  but  journeys  on  and  on 
Beyond  the  golden  gates  of  dawn; 
Beyond  the  outmost  round  of  Mars; 
Where  God's  foot  rocks  the  cradle  of 
His  new-born  baby  stars. 

XVII. 

As  one  who  comes  upon  a  street, 
Or  sudden  turn  in  pleasant  path, 
As  one  who  suddenly  may  meet 
Some  scene,  some  sound,  some  sense  that 

hath 

A  memory  of  olden  days, 
Of  days  that  long  have  gone  their  ways, 
She  caught  her  breath,  caught  quick  and 

fast 

Her  breath,  as  if  her  whole  life  passed 
Before,  and  pendant  to  and  fro 
Swung  in  the  air  before  her  eyes; 
And  oh,  her  heart  beat  so! 

How  her  heart  beat!    Three  thousand 

years 

Of  weary,  waiting  womanhood, 
Of  folded  hands,  of  falling  tears, 
Of  lone  soul- wending  through  dark  wood; 
But  now  at  last  to  meet  once  more 
Upon  the  bright,  all-shining  shore 
Of  earth,  in  life's  resplendent  dawn, 
And  he  so  fair  to  look  upon! 
Tall  Phaon  and  the  world  aglow! 
Tall  Phaon,  favored  of  the  gods, 
And  oh,  her  heart  beat  so! 

Her  heart  beat  so,  no  word  she  spake; 
She    pressed  her  palms,    she  leaned  her 
face, — 


Her  heart  beat  so,  its  beating  brake 
The  cord  that  held  her  robe  in  place 
About  her  wondrous,  rounded  throat, 
And  in  the  warm  winds  let  it  float 
And  fall  upon  her  soft,  round  arm, 
So  warm  it  made  the  morning  warm. 
Then  pink  and  pearl  forsook  her  cheek, 
And,  "Phaon,  I  am  Sappho,  I—" 
Nay,  nay,  she  did  not  speak. 

And  was  this  Sappho,  she  who  sang 
When  mournful  Jeremiah  wept  ? 
When  harps,  where  weeping  willows  hang, 
Hung  mute  and  all  their  music  kept  ? 
Aye,  this  was  Sappho,  she  who  knew 
Such  witchery  of  song  as  drew 
The  war-like  world  to  hear  her  sing, 
As  moons  draw  mad  seas  following. 
Aye,  this  was  Sappho;  Lesbos  hill 
Had  all  been  hers,  and  Tempos  vale, 
And  song  sweet  as  to  kill. 

Her  dark  Greek  eyes  turned  to  the  sea; 
Lo,  Phaon's  ferry  as  of  old! 
He  kept  his  boat's  prow  still,  and  he 
Was  stately,  comely,  strong,  and  bold 
As  when  he  ferried  gods,  and  drew 
Immortal  youth  from  one  who  knew 
His  scorn  of  gold.     The  Lesbian  shore 
Lay  yonder,  and  the  rocky  roar 
Against  the  promontory  told, 
Told  and  retold  her  tale  of  love 
That  never  can  grow  old. 

Three    thousand  years!   yet    love    was 

young 

And  fair  as  when  JEolis  knew 
Her  glory,  and  her  great  soul  strung 
The  harp  that  still  sweeps  ages  through. 
Ionic  dance  or  Doric  war, 
Or  purpled  dove  or  dulcet  car, 
Or  unyoked  dove  or  close-yoked  dove, 
What  meant  it  all  but  love  and  love  ? 
And  at  the  naming  of  Love's  name 
She  raised  her  eyes,  and  lo!  her  doves! 
Just  as  of  old  they  came. 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON.  293 


SONG  THIKD. 
"And  God  saw  the  light  that  it  was  good." 

/  heard  a  tale  long,  long  ago, 
Where  I  had  gone  apart  to  pray 
By  Shasta1  $  pyramid  of  snow, 
That  touches  me  unto  this  day. 
I  know  the  fashion  is  to  say 
An  Arab  tale,  an  Orient  lay; 
But  when  the  grocer  rings  my  gold 
On  counter,  flung  from  greasy  hold, 
He  cares  not  from  Acadian  vale 
It  comes,  or  savage  mountain  chine;— 
But  this  the  Shastan  tale: 

Once  in  the  olden,  golden  days, 
When  men  and  beasts  companioned,  when 
All  went  in  peace,  about  their  ways 
Nor  God  had  hid  His  face  from  men 
Because  man  slew  his  brother  beast 
To  make  his  most  unholy  feast, 
A  gray  coyote,  monkish  cowled, 
Upraised  his  face  and  wailed  and  howled 
The  while  he  made  his  patient  round; 
For  lot  the.  red  men  all  lay  dead, 
Stark,  frozen  on  the  ground. 

The  very  dogs  had  fled  the  storm, 
A  mother  with  her  long,  meshed  hair 
Bound  tight  about  her  baby's  form, 
Lay  frozen,  all  her  body  bare. 
Her  last  shred  held  her  babe  in  place; 
Her  last  breath  warmed  her  baby's  face. 
Then,  as  the  good  monk  brushed  the  snow 
Aside  from  mother  loving  so, 
He  heard  God  from  the  mount  above 
Speak  through  the  clouds  and  loving  say.* 
"  Yea,  all  is  dead  but  Love." 


294  SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


"  Now  take  up  Love  and  cherish  her, 
And  seek  the  while  man  with  all  speed, 
And  keep  Love  warm  within  thy  fur; 
For  oh,  he  needelh  love  indeed. 
Take  all  and  give  him  freely,  all 
Of  love  you  find,  or  great  or  small; 
For  he  is  very  poor  in  this, 
So  poor  he  scarce  knows  what  love  is." 
The  gray  monk  raised  Love  in  his  paws 
And  sped,  a  ghostly  streak  of  gray, 
To  where  the  white  man  was. 

But  man  uprose,  enraged  to  see 
A  gaunt  wolf  track  his  new-hewn  town. 
He  called  his  dogs,  and  angrily 
He  brought  his  flashing  rifle  down. 
Then  God  said:  "  On  his  hearthstone  lay 
The  seed  of  Love,  and  come  away; 
The  seed  of  Love,  't  is  needed  so, 
And  pray  that  it  may  grow  and  grow." 
And  so  the  gray  monk  crept  at  night 
And  laid  Love  down,  as  God  had  said, 
A  faint  and  feeble  light. 

So  faint,  indeed,  the  cold  hearthstone 
It  seemed  would  chill  starved  Love  to  death; 
And  so  the  monk  gave  all  his  own 
And  crouched  and  fanned  it  with  his  breath 
Until  a  red  cock  crowed  for  day. 
Then  God  said:  "Rise  up,  come  away" 
The  least  obeyed,  but  yet  looked  back 
All  morn  along  his  lonely  track; 
For  he  had  left  his  all  in  all, 
His  own  Love,  for  that  famished  Love 
Seemed  so  exceeding  small. 

And  God  said:  "  Look  not  back  again." 
But  ever,  where  a  campfire  burned, 
And  he  beheld  strong,  burly  men 
At  meat,  he  sat  him  down  and  turned 
His  face  to  wail  and  wail  and  mourn 
The  Love  laid  on  that  cold  hearthstone. 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


295 


Then  God  was  angered,  and  God  said: 
"Be  thou  a  beggar  then;  thy  head 
Hath  been  a  fool,  but  thy  swift  feet, 
Because  they  bore  sweet  Love,  shall  be 
The  fleetest  of  all  fleet." 

And  ever  still  about  the  camp, 
By  chine  or  plain,  in  heat  or  hail, 
A  homeless,  hungry,  hounded  tramp. 
The  gaunt  coyote  keeps  his  wail. 
And  ever  as  he  wails  he  turns  t 

His  head,  looks  back  and  yearns  and  yearns 
For  lost  Love,  laid  that  wintry  day 
To  warm  a  hearthstone  far  away. 
Poor  loveless,  homeless  beast,  I  keep 
Your  lost  Love  warm  for  you,  and,  too, 
A  canon  cool  and  deep. 


PART  THIRD, 
i. 

And  they  sailed  on;  the  sea-doves  sailed, 
And  Love  sailed  with  them.    And  there  lay 
Such  peace  as  never  had  prevailed 
On  earth  since  dear  Love's  natal  day. 
Great  black-backed  whales  blew  bows  in 

clouds, 

Wee  sea-birds  flitted  through  the  shrouds. 
A  wide-winged,  amber  albatross 
Blew  by,  and  bore  his  shadow  cross, 
And  seemed  to  hang  it  on  the  mast, 
The  while  he  followed  far  behind, 
The  great  ship  flew  so  fast. 


She  questioned  her  if  Phaon  knew, 
If  he  could  dream,  or  halfway  guess 
How  she  had  tracked  the  ages  through 
And  trained  her  soul  to  gentleness 
Through  many  lives,  through  every  part 
To  make  her  worthy  his  great  heart. 
Would  Phaon  turn  and  fly  her  still, 
With  that  fierce,  proud,  imperious  will, 
And  scorn  her  still,  and  still  despise? 


She  shuddered,  turned  aside  her  face, 
And  lo,  her  sea-dove's  eyes! 


II. 

Then  days  of  rest  and  restful  nights; 
And  love  kept  tryst  as  true  love  will, 
The  prow  their  trysting-place.    Delights 
Of  silence,  simply  sitting  still, — 
Of  asking  nothing,  saying  naught; 
For  all  that  they  had  ever  sought 
Sailed  with  them;  words  or  deeds  had  been 
Impertinence,  a  selfish  sin. 
And  oh,  to  know  how  sweet  a  thing 
Is  silence  on  those  restful  seas 
When  Love's  dove  folds  her  wing! 


The  great  sea  slept.    In  vast  repose 
His  pillowed  head  half-hidden  lay, 
Half-drowned  in  dread  Alaskan  snows 
That  stretch  to  where  no  man  can  say. 
His  huge  arms  tossed  to  left,  to  right, 
Where  black  woods,  banked  like  bits  of 

night, 
As  sleeping  giants  toss  their  arms 


296 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


At  night  about  their  fearful  forms. 

A  slim  canoe,  a  night-bird's  call, 

Some  gray  sea-doves,  just  these  and  Love, 

And  Love  indeed  was  all! 


in. 

Far,  far  away  such  cradled  Isles 
As  Jason  dreamed  and  Argos  sought 
Surge  up  from  endless  watery  miles! 
And  thou,  the  pale  high  priest  of  thought, 
The  everlasting  throned  king 
Of  fair  Samoa!     Shall  I  bring 
Sweet  sandal-wood  ?    Or  shall  I  lay 
Kich  wreaths  of  California's  bay 
From  sobbing  maidens?     Stevenson, 
Sleep  well.     Thy  work  is  done;  well  done! 
So  bravely,  bravely  done! 


And  Molokia's  lord  of  love 
And  tenderness,  and  piteous  tears 
For  stricken  man!     Go  forth,  O  dove! 
With  olive  branch,  and  still  the  fears 
Of  those  he  meekly  died  to  save. 
They  shall  not  perish.     From  that  grave 
Shall  grow  such  healing!  such  as  He 
Gave  stricken  men  by  Galilee. 
Great  ocean  cradle,  cradle,  keep 
These  two,  the  chosen  of  thy  heart, 
Rocked  in  sweet,  baby  sleep. 


IV. 

Fair  land  of  flowers,  land  of  flame, 
Of  sun-born  seas,  of  sea-born  clime, 
Of  clouds  low  shepherded  and  tame 
As  white  pet  sheep  at  shearing  time, 
Of  great,  white,  generous  high-born  rain, 
Of  rainbows  builded  not  in  vain — 
Of  rainbows  builded  for  the  feet 
Of  love  to  pass  dry-shod  and  fleet 
From  isle  to  isle,  when  smell  of  musk 
'Mid  twilight  is,  and  one  lone  star 
Sits  in  the  brow  of  dusk. 


Oh,  dying,  sad-voiced,  sea-born  maid! 
And  plundered,  dying,  still  sing  on. 
Thy  breast  against  the  thorn  is  laid — 
Sing  on,  sing  on,  sweet  dying  swan. 
How  pitiful!     And  so  despoiled 
By  those  you  fed,  for  whom  you  toiled! 
Aloha!     Hail  you,  and  farewell, 
Far  echo  of  some  lost  sea-shell! 
Some  song  that  lost  its  way  at  sea, 
Some  sea-lost  notes  of  nature,  lost, 
That  crying,  came  to  me. 


Dusk  maid,  adieu!    One  sea-shell  less! 
Sad  sea-shell  silenced  and  forgot. 
O  Rachel  in  the  wilderness, 
Wail  on!     Your  children  they  are  not. 
And  they  who  took  them,  they  who  laid 
Hard  hand,  shall  they  not  feel  afraid  ? 
Shall  they  who  in  the  name  of  God 
Robbed  and  enslaved,  escape  His  rod? 
Give  me  some  after-world  afar 
From  these  hard  men,  for  well  I  know 
Hell  must  be  where  they  are. 


v. 

Lo!  suddenly  the  lone  ship  burst 
Upon  an  uncompleted  world, 
A  world  so  dazzling  white,  man  durst 
Not  face  the  flashing  search-light  hurled 
From  heaven's  snow-built  battlements 
And  high-heaved  camp  of  cloud-wreathed 

tents. 

And  boom!  boom!  boom!  from  sea  or  shore 
Came  one  long,  deep,  continuous  roar, 
As  if  God  wrought;  as  if  the  days, 
The  first  six  pregnant  mother  morns, 
Had  not  quite  gone  their  way. 


What  word  is  fitting  but  the  Word 
Here  in  this  vast  world-fashioning? 
What  tongue  here  name  the  nameless 

Lord? 
What  hand  lay  hand  on  anything? 


Fair  land  of  flowers,  land  of  flame. 
Of  sun-born  seas,  of  sea-born  clime, 
Of  clouds  low  shepherded  and  tame 
As  while  pet  sheep  at  sJiearing  time. 
Of  great,  white,  generous  high-born  rain, 
Of  rainbows  build cd  not  in  rain  — 
Of  rainbovbs  builded  for  the  feet 
Of  lore   to  pass  dry-shod  and  fleet 
From  isle  to  isle,  when  smell  of  musk 
'Mid  fcviligkt  is,  and  one  lone  star 
Sits  in  (he  brow  of  dusk. 


296 


I,  sea-born  maid! 
ying,  still  sing  on. 
ttst  against  the  thorn  is  laid— 
.,  sing  on,  sweet  dying  swan. 
And  so  despoiled 

for  whom  you  toiled! 
yon,  and  farewell, 
o  of  some  lost  sea-shell! 

lost  its  way  at  sea, 
ea-lost  notes  of  nature,  lost, 
>  to  me. 


With 
Of  th 
They  shall 
Shall  grow  such  1 
Gave  stricken  me 
Great  ocean  cradl 
These  two,  the  ol 
Booked  in  sweet, 


adieu!    One  sea-shell  less ! 

>d  and  forgot. 
I 

dren  they  are  not. 
hem,  they  who  laid 
*y  not  feel  afraid  ? 
>  name  of  God 
.scape  His  rod? 
afar 

I  know 


,rst 

man  durst 
it  hurled 

D  ents 
.-wreathed 


Fair  land  of  flowert,  U 
Of  sun-born  aeas,  of  »a» 
Of  clouds  low  shepl 
As  white  pet  sheep  at  si: 
Of  great,  white,  genercr.. 
Of  rainbows  builded  no; 
Of  rainbows  builded  for  the 

love  to  pass  dry-shod  and  fl*d 
Prom  isle  to  isle,  when  smei- 

•  twilight  is,  and  one  lone  ttw 
the  brow  of  dusk. 


.. :  from  sea  or  shore 
;ous  roar, 

if  the  days, 

r  morns, 


the  Word 
;  ioning  ? 
the  nameless 

ything? 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


297 


Come,  let  us  coin  new  words  of  might 
And  massiveness  to  name  this  light, 
This  largeness,  largeness  everywhere! 
White  rivers  hanging  in  the  air, 
Ice-tied  through  all  eternity! 
Nay,  peace!    It  were  profane  to  say: 
We  dare  but  hear  and  see. 


Be  silent!     Hear  the  strokes  resound! 
'T  is  God's  hand  rounding  down  the  earth 
Take  off  thy  shoes,  't  is  holy  ground,— 
Behold!  a  continent  has  birth! 
The  skies  bow  down,  Madonna's  blue 
Enfolds  the  sea  in  sapphire.     You 
May  lift,  a  little  spell,  your  eyes 
And  feast  them  on  the  ice-propped  skies, 
And  feast  but  for  a  little  space: 
Then  let  thy  face  fall  grateful  down 
And  let  thy  soul  say  grace. 


VI. 

At  anchor  so,  and  all  night  through, 
The  two  before  God's  temple  kept. 
He  spake:  "  I  know  yon  peak;  I  knew 
A  deep  ice-cavern  there.     I  slept 
With  hairy  men,  or  monsters  slew, 
Or  led  down  misty  seas  my  crew 
Of  cruel  savages  and  slaves, 
And  slew  who  dared  the  distant  waves, 
And  once  a  strange,  strong  ship — and  she, 
I  bore  her  to  yon  cave  of  ice, — 
And  Love  companioned  me. 


VII. 

"  Two  scenes  of  all  scenes  from  the  first 
Have  come  to  me  on  this  great  sea: 
The  one  when  light  from  heaven  burst, 
The  one  when  sweet  Love  came  to  me. 
And  of  the  two,  or  best  or  worst, 
I  ever  hold  this  second  first, 
Bear  with  me.     Yonder  citadel 
Of  ice  tells  all  my  tongue  can  tell: 


My  thirst  for  love,  my  pain,  my  pride, 
My  soul's  warm  youth  the  while  she  lived, 
Its  old  age  when  she  died. 


"  I  know  not  if  she  loved  or  no. 
I  only  asked  to  serve  and  love; 
To  love  and  serve,  and  ever  so 
My  love  grew  as  grows  light  above, — 
Grew  from  gray  dawn  to  gold  midday, 
And  swept  the  wide  world  in  its  sway. 
The  stars  came  down,  so  close  they  canie, 
I  called  them,  named  them  with  her  name, 
The  kind  moon  came, — came  once  so  near, 
That  in  the  hollow  of  her  arm 
I  leaned  my  lifted  spear. 


"And  yet,  somehow,  for  all  the  stars, 
And  all  the  silver  of  the  moon, 
She  looked  from  out  her  icy  bars 
As  longing  for  some  sultry  noon; 
As  longing  for  some  warmer  kind, 
Some  far  south  sunlaud  left  behind. 
Then  I  went  down  to  sea.     I  sailed 
Thro'  seas  where  monstrous   beasts  pre 
vailed, 

Such  slimy,  shapeless,  hungered  things! 
Ked  griffins,  wide-winged,  bat-like  wings, 
Black  griffins,  black  or  fire-fed, 
That  ate  my  fever-stricken  men 
Ere  yet  they  were  quite  dead. 


"I  could  not  find  her  love  for  her, 
Or  land,  or  fit  thing  for  her  touch, 
And  I  came  back,  sad  worshiper, 
And  watched  and  longed  and  loved  so 

much! 

I  watched  huge  monsters  climb  and  pass 
Reflected  in  great  walls,  like  glass; 
Dark,  draggle.d,  hairy,  fearful  forms 
Upblown  by  ever-battling  storms, 
And  streaming  still  with  slime  and  spray; 
So  huge  from  out  their  sultry  seas, 
Like  storm-torn  islands  they. 


298 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


"  Then  even  these  she  ceased  to  note, 
She  ceased  at  last  to  look  on  me, 
But,  baring  to  the  sun  her  throat, 
She  looked  and  looked  incessantly 
Away  against  the  south,  away 
Against  the  sun  the  livelong  day. 
At  last  I  saw  her  watch  the  swan 
Surge  tow'rd  the  north,  surge  on  and  on. 
I  saw  her  smile,  her  first,  faint  smile; 
Then  burst  a  new-born  thought,  and  I, 
I  nursed  that  all  the  while. 


VIII. 

"I  somehow  dreamed,  or  guessed,  or 

knew, 

That  somewhere  in  the  dear  earth's  heart 
Was  warmth  and  tenderness,, and  true 
Delight,  and  all  love's  nobler  part. 
I  tried  to  think,  aye,  thought  and  thought; 
In  all  the  strange  fruits  that  I  brought 
For  her  delight  I  could  but  find 
The  sweetness  deep  within  the  rind. 
All  beasts,  all  birds,  some  better  part 
Of  central  being  deepest  housed; 
And  earth  must  have  a  heart. 


"I  watched  the  wide-winged  birds  that 

blew 

Continually  against  the  bleak 
And  ice-built  north,  and  surely  knew 
The  long,  lorn  croak,  the  reaching  beak, 
Led  not  to  ruin  evermore; 
For  they  came  back,  came  swooping  o'er 
Each  spring,  with  clouds  of  younger  ones, 
So  dense,  they  dimmed  the  summer  suns. 
And  thus  I  knew  somehow,  somewhere, 
Beyond  earth's  ice-built,  star-tipt  peaks 
They  found  a  softer  air. 

"And  too,  I  heard  strange  stories,  held 
In  mem'ries  of  my  hairy  men, 
Vague,  dim  traditions,  dim  with  eld, 
Of  other  lands  and  ages  when 
Nor  ices  were,  nor  anything; 


But  ever  one  warm,  restful  spring 
Of  radiant  sunlight:  stories  told 
By  dauntless  men  of  giant  mold, 
Who  kept  their  cavern's  icy  mouth 
Ice-locked,  and  hungered  where  they  sat, 
With  sad  eyes  tow'rd  the  south: 

"  Tales  of  a  time  ere  hate  began, 
Of  herds  of  reindeer,  wild  beasts  tamed, 
When  man  walked  forth  in  love  with  man, 
Walked  naked,  and  was  not  ashamed; 
Of  how  a  brother  beast  he  slew, 
Then  night,  and  all  sad  sorrows  knew; 
How  tame  beasts  were  no  longer  tame; 
How  God  drew  His  great  sword  of  flame 
And  drove  man  naked  to  the  snow, 
Till,  pitying,  He  made  of  skins 
A  coat,  and  clothed  him  so. 

"And,  true  or  not  true,  still  the  same, 
I  saw  continually  at  night 
That  far,  bright,  flashing  sword  of  flame, 
Misnamed  the  Borealis  light; 
I  saw  my  men,  in  coats  of  skin 
As  God  had  clothed  them,  felt  the  sin 
And  suffering  of  that  first  death 
Each  day  in  every  icy  breath. 
Then  why  should  I  still  disbelieve 
These  tales  of  fairer  lands  than  mine, 
And  let  my  lady  grieve? 

IX. 

"Tea,  I  would  find  that  land  for  her! 
Then  dogs,  and  sleds,  and  swift  reindeer; 
Huge,  hairy  men,  all  mailed  in  fur, 
Who  knew  not  yet  the  name  of  fear, 
Nor  knew  fatigue,  nor  aughf  that  ever 
To  this  day  has  balked  endeavor. 
And  we  swept  forth,    while    wide,  swift 

wings 

Still  sought  the  Pole  in  endless  strings. 
I  left  her  sitting  looking  south, 
Still  leaning,  looking  to  the  sun, — 
My  kisses  on  her  mouth! 


SAPPHO   AND    PHAON. 


299 


X. 

"Far  toward  the  north,  so  tall,  so  far, 
One  tallest  ice  shaft  starward  stood — 
Stood  as  it  were  itself  a  star, 
Scarce  fallen  from  its  sisterhood. 
Tip-top  the  glowing  apex  there 
Upreared  a  huge  white  polar  bear; 
He  pushed  his-  swart  nose  up  and  out, 
Then  walked  the  North  Star  round  about, 
Below  the  Great  Bear  of  the  main, 
The  upper  main,  and  as  if  chained, 
Chained  with  a  star-linked  chain. 


XI. 

"And  we  pushed  on,  up,  on,  and  on, 
Until,  as  in  the  world  of  dreams, 
We  found  the  very  doors  of  dawn 
With  warm    sun    bursting    through    the 

seams. 
We  brake  them  through,  then  down,  far 

down, 

Until,  as  in  some  park-set  town, 
We  found  lost  Eden.     Very  rare 
The  fruit,  and  all  the  perfumed  air 
So  sweet,  we  sat  us  down  to  feed 
And  rest,  without  a  thought  or  care, 
Or  ever  other  need. 


"For  all  earth's  pretty  birds  were  here; 
And  women  fair,  and  very  fair; 
Sweet  song  was  in  the  atmosphere, 
Nor  effort  was,  nor  noise,  nor  care. 
As  cocoons  from  their  silken  house 
Wing  forth  and  in  the  sun  carouse, 
My  men  let  fall  their  housings  and 
Passed  on  and  on,  far  down  the  land 
Of  purple  grapes  and  poppy  bloom. 
Such  warm,    sweet   land,    such  peaceful 

land! 
Sweet  peace  and  sweet  perfume! 


"And  I  pushed  down  ere  I  returned 
To  climb  the  cold  world's  walls  of  snow, 
And   saw  where  earth's  heart    beat    and 

burned, 

An  hundred  sultry  leagues  below; 
Saw  deep  seas  set  with  deep-sea  isles 
Of  waving  verdure;  miles  on  miles 
Of  rising  sea-birds  with  their  broods, 
In  all  their  noisy,  happy  moods! 
Aye,  then  I  knew  earth  has  a  heart, 
That  Nature  wastes  nor  space  or  place, 
But  husbands  every  part. 


XII. 

"  My  reindeer  fretted:  I  turned  back 
For  her,  the  heart  of  me,  my  soul! 
Ah,  then,  how  swift,  how  white  my  track! 
All  Paradise  beneath  the  Pole 
Were  but  a  mockery  till  she 
Should   share  its   dreamful   sweets    with 

me 

I  know  not  well  what  next  befell, 
Save  that  white  heaven  grew  black  hell. 
She  sat  with  sad  face  to  the  south, 
Still  sat,  sat  still;  but  she  was  dead — 
My  kisses  on  her  mouth. 


XIII. 

"What  else  to  do  but  droop  and  die? 
But  dying,  how  my  poor  soul  yearned 
To  fly  as  swift  south  birds  may  fly — 
To  pass  that  way  her  eyes  had  turned, 
The  dear  days  she  had  sat  with  me, 
And  search  and  search  eternity! 
And,  do  you  know,  I  surely  know 
That  God  has  given  us  to  go 
The  way  we  will  in  life  or  death — 
To  go,  to  grow,  or  good  or  ill, 
As  one  may  draw  a  breath?" 


300  SAPPHO   AND    PHAON. 


SONG  FOUKTH. 

"  And  God  saw  everything  that  He  had  made, 
and,  behold,  it  was  very  good." 

Says  Plato,  '•  Once  in  Greece  the  gods 
Plucked  grapes,  pressed  wine,  and  reveled  deep 
And  drowsed  below  their  poppy-pods, 
And  lay  full  length  the  hills  asleep. 
Then,  waking,  one  said,  '  Overmuch 
We  toil :  come,  let  us  rise  and  touch 
Red  clay,  and  shape  it  into  man, 
That  he  may  build  as  we  shall  plan  /' 
And  so  they  shaped  man,  all  complete, 
Self-procreative,   satisfied  ; 
Two  heads,  four  hands,  four  feet. 

"  And  then  the  gods  slept,  heedless,  long; 
But  waking  suddenly  one  day, 
They  heard  their  valley  ring  with  song 
And  saw  man  reveling  as  they. 
Enraged,  they  drew  their  swords  and  said, 
'  Bow  down  !  bend  down  /' — but  man  replied 
Defiant,  fearless,  everywhere 
His  four  Jists  shaking  in  the  air. 
The  gods  descending  cleft  in  twain 
Each  man  ;  then  wiped  their  swords  on  grapes; 
And  let  confusion  reign. 

"And  such  confusion!  each  half  ran, 
San  here,  ran  there;  or  weep  or  laugh 
Or  what  he  would,  each  helpless  man 
Ran  hunting  for  his  other  half. 
And  from  that  day,  thenceforth  the  grapes 
Bore  blood  andjlame,  and  restless  shapes 
Of  hewn-down,  helpless  halves  of  ment 
Ran  searching  ever;  crazed,  as  when 
First  hewn  in  twain,  they  grasped,  let  go, 
Then  grasped  again;  but  rarely  found 
That  lost  half  once  loved  so." 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


301 


Now,  right  or  wrong,  or  false  or  true, 
'Tis  Plato's  tale  of  bitter  sweet; 
But  I  know  well  and  well  know  you 
The  quest  keeps  on  at  fever  heat. 
Let  Love,  then,  wisely  sit  and  wait  ! 
The  world  is  round;  sit  by  the  gate, 
Like  blind  Belisarius  :  being  blind, 
Love  should  not  search;  Love  shall  not  find 
By  searching.     Brass  is  so  like  gold, 
How  shall  this  blind  Love  know  new  brass 
From  pure  soft  gold  of  old t 


PAKT  FOUETH. 


Nay,  turn  not  to  the  past  for  light; 
Nay,  teach  not  Pagan  tale  forsooth! 
Behind  lie  heathen  gods  and  night, 
Before  lift  high,  white  light  and  truth. 
Sweet  Orpheus  looked  back,  and  lo, 
Hell  met  his  eyes  and  endless  woe! 
Lot's  wife  looked  back,  and  for  this  fell 
To  something  even  worse  than  hell. 
Let  us  have  faith,  sail,  seek  and  find 
The  new  world  and  the  new  world's  ways ; 
Blind  Homer  led  the  blind ! 


ii. 

Come,  let  us  kindle  Faith  in  light! 
Yon  eagle  climbing  to  the  sun 
Keeps  not  the  straightest  course  in  sight, 
But  room  and  reach  of  wing  and  run 
Of  rounding  circle  all  are  his, 
Till  he  at  last  bathes  in  the  light 
Of  worlds  that  look  far  down  on  this 
Arena's  battle  for  the  right. 
The  stoutest  sail  that  braves  the  breeze, 
The  bravest  battle  ship  that  rides, 
Kides  rounding  up  the  seas. 

Come,  let  us  kindle  faith  in  man! 
What  though  yon  eagle,  where  he  swings, 
May  moult  a  feather  in  God's  plan 


Of  broader,  stronger,  better  wings! 
Why,  let  the  moulted  feathers  lie 
As  thick  as  leaves  upon  the  lawn: 
These  be  but  proof  we  cleave  the  sky 
And  still  round  on  and  on  and  on. 
Fear  not  for  moulting  feathers;  nay, 
But  rather  fear  when  all  seems  fair, 
And  care  is  far  away. 

Come,  let  us  kindle  faith  in  God! 
He  made,  He  kept,  He  still  can  keep. 
The  storm  obeys  His  burning  rod, 
The  storm  brought  Christ   to  walk  the 

deep. 

Trust  God  to  round  His  own  at  will; 
Trust  God  to  keep  His  own  for  aye — 
Or  strife  or  strike,  or  well  or  ill; 
An  eagle  climbing  up  the  sky — 
A  meteor  down  from  heaven  hurled — 
Trust  God  to  round,  reform,  or  rock 
His  new-born  baby  world. 


How  full  the  great,  full-hearted  seas 
That  lave  high,  white  Alaska's  feet! 
How  densely  green  the  dense  green  trees! 
How  sweet  the  smell  of  wood!  how  sweet! 
What  sense  of  high,  white  newness  where 
This  new  world  breathes  the  new,  blue  air 
That  never  breath  of  man  or  breath 
Of  mortal  thing  considereth! 


302 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


And  O,  that  Borealis  light! 

The  angel  with  his  flaming  sword 

And  never  sense  of  night! 


IV. 

Are  these  the  walls  of  Paradise — 
Yon  peaks  the  gates  man  may  not  pass  ? 
Lo,  everlasting  silence  lies 
Along  their  gleaming  ways  of  glass! 
Just  silence  and  that  sword  of  flame; 
Just  silence  and  Jehovah's  name, 
Where  all  is  new,  unnamed,  and  white! 
Come,  let  us  read  where  angels  write— 
"  In  the  beginning  God" — aye,  these 
The  waters  where  God's  Spirit  moved; 
These,  these,  the  very  seas! 


Just    one    deep,    wave-washed    chariot 

wheel:         . 

Such  sunset  as  that  far  first  day! 
An  unsheathed  sword  of  flame  and  steel; 
Then  battle  flashes;  then  dismay, 
And  mad  confusion  of  all  hues 
That  earth  and  heaven  could  infuse, 
Till  all  hues  softly  fused  and  blent 
In  orange  worlds  of  wonderment: 
Then  dying  day,  in  kingly  ire, 
Struck    back    with    one  last  blow,   and 

smote 
The  world  with  molten  fire. 


So  fell  Alaska,  proudly,  dead 
In  battle  harness  where  he  fought. 
But  falling,  still  high  o'er  his  head 
Far  flashed  his  sword  in  crimson  wrought, 
Till  came  his  kingly  foeman,  Dusk, 
In  garments  moist  with  smell  of  musk. 
The  bent    moon  moved  down  heaven's 

steeps 

Low-bowed,  as  when  a  woman  weeps; 
Bowed  low,  half-veiled  in  widowhood; 
Then  stars  tiptoed  the  peaks  in  gold 
And  burned  brown  sandal-wood. 


Fit  death  of  Day;  fit  burial  rite 
Of  white  Alaska!    Let  us  lay 
This  leaflet  'mid  the  musky  night 
Upon  his  tomb.     Come,  come  away; 
For  Phaon  talks  and  Sappho  turns 
To  where  the  light  of  heaven  burns 
To  love  light,  and  she  leans  to  hear 
With  something  more  than  mortal  ear. 
The  while  the  ship  has  pushed  her  prow 
So  close  against  the  fir-set  shore 
You  breathe  the  spicy  bough. 


v. 

Some  red  men  by  the  low,  white  beach; 
Camp  fires,  belts  of  dense,  black  fir: 
She  leans  as  if  she  still  would  reach 
To  him  the  very  soul  of  her. 
The  red  flames  cast  a  silhouette 
Against  the  snow,  above  the  jet 
Black,  narrow  night  of  fragrant  fir, 
Behold,  what  ardent  worshiper! 
Lim'd  out  against  a  glacier  peak, 
With  strong  arms  crossed  upon  his  breast; 
The  while  she  feels  him  speak: 


"How  glad  was  I  to  walk  with  Death 
Far  down  his  dim,  still,  trackless  lands, 
Where  wind  nor  wave  nor  any  breath 
Broke  ripples  o'er  the  somber  sands. 
I  walked  with  Death  as  eagerly 
As  ever  I  had  sailed  this  sea. 
Then  on  and  on  I  searched,  I  sought, 
Yet  all  my  seeking  came  to  naught. 
I  sailed  by  pleasant,  peopled  isles 
Of  song  and  summer  time;  I  sailed 
Ten  thousand  weary  miles! 


"I  heard  a  song!  She  had  been  sad, 
So  sad  and  ever  drooping  she; 
How  could  she,  then,  in  song  be  glad 
The  while  I  searched  ?    It  could  not  be. 
And  yet  that  voice!  so  like  it  seemed, 
I  questioned  if  I  heard  or  dreamed. 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


303 


She  smiled  011  me.     This  made  me  scorn 
My  very  self  ;  for  I  was  born 
To  loyalty.     I  would  be  true 
Unto  my  love,  my  soul,  my  self, 
Whatever  death  might  do. 


' '  I  fled  her  face,  her  proud,  fair  face, 
Her  songs  that  won  a  world  to  her. 
Had  she  sat  songless  in  her  place, 
Sat  with  no  single  worshiper, 
Sat  with  bowed  head,  sad-voiced,  alone, 
I  might  have  known!  I  might  have  known! 
But  how  could  I,  the  savage,  know 
This  sun,  contrasting  with  that  snow, 
Would  waken  her  great  soul  to  song 
That  still  thrills  all  the  ages  through? 
I  blindly  did  such  wrong! 


"Again  I  fled.     I  ferried  gods; 
Yet,  pining  still,  I  came  to  pine 
Where  drowsy  Lesbos  Bacchus  nods 
And  drowned  my  soul  in  Cyprian  wine. 
Drowned!  drowned  my  poor,  sad  soul  so 

deep, 

I  sank  to  where  damned  serpents  creep! 
Then  slowly  upward;  round  by  round 
I  toiled,  regained  this  vantage-ground. 
And  now,  at  last,  I  claim  mine  own, 
As  some  long-banished  king  comes  back 
To  battle  for  his  throne." 


VI. 

I  do  not  say  that  thus  he  spake 
By  word  of  mouth,  by  human  speech; 
The  sun  in  one  swift  flash  will  take 
A  photograph  of  space  and  reach 
The  realm  of  stars.     A  soul  like  his 
Is  like  unto  the  sun  in  this: 
Her  soul  the  plate  placed  to  receive 
The  swift  impressions,  to  believe, 
To  doubt  no  more  than  you  might  doubt 
The  wondrous  midnight  world  of  stars 
That  dawn  has  blotted  out. 


And  Phaon  loved  her;  he  who  knew 
The  North  Pole  and  the  South,  who  named 
The  stars  for  her,  strode  forth  and  slew 
Black,  hairy  monsters  no  man  tamed; 
And  all  before  fair  Greece  was  born, 
Or  Lesbos  yet  knew  night  or  morn. 
No  marvel  that  she  knew  him  when 
He  came,  the  chief est  of  all  men. 
No  marvel  that  she  loved  and  died, 
And  left  such  marbled  bits  of  song — 
Of  broken  Phidian  pride. 


VIII. 

Oh,  but  for  that  one  further  sense 
For  man  that  man  shall  yet  possess! 
That  sense  that  puts  aside  pretense 
And  sees  the  truth,  that  scorns  to  guess 
Or  grope,  or  play  at  blindman's  buff, 
But  knows  rough  diamonds  in  the  rough! 
Oh,  well  for  man  when  man  shall  see, 
As  see  he  must  man's  destiny! 
Oh,  well  when  man  shall  know  his  mate, 
One-winged  and  desolate,  lives  on 
And  bravely  dares  to  wait! 


IX. 

Full  morning  found  them,  and  the  land 
Received  them,  and  the  chapel  gray; 
Some  Indian  huts  on  either  hand, 
A  smell  of  pine,  a  flash  of  spray, — 
White,  frozen  rivers  of  the  sky 
Far  up  the  glacial  steeps  hard  by. 
Far  ice-peaks  flashed  with  sudden  light, 
As  if  they  would  illume  the  rite, 
As  if  they  knew  his  story  well, 
As  if  they  knew  that  form,  that  face. 
And  all  that  Time  could  tell. 


They  passed  dusk  chieftains  two  by  two, 
With  totem  gods  and  stroud  and  shell 


304 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


They  slowly  passed,  and  passing  through, 
He  bought  of  all — he  knew  them  well. 
And  one,  a  bent  old  man  and  blind, 
He  put  his  hands  about,  and  kind 
And  strange  words  whispered  in  his  ear, 
So  soft,  his  dull  soul  could  but  hear. 
And  hear  he  surely  did,  for  he, 
With  full  hands,  lifted  up  his  face 
And  smiled  right  pleasantly. 


How   near,    how   far,    how   fierce,  how 

tame! 

The  polar  bear,  the  olive  branch; 
The  dying  exile,  Christ's  sweet  name — 
Vast  silence!  then  the  avalanche! 
How  much  this  little  church  to  them — 
Alaska  and  Jerusalem! 
The  pair  passed  in,  the  silent  pair 
Fell  down  before  the  altar  there, 
The  Greek  before  the  gray  Greek  cross, 
And  Phaon  at  her  side  at  last, 
For  all  her  weary  loss. 


The  bearded  priest  came,  and  he  laid 
His  two  hands  forth  and  slowly  spake 
Strange,  solemn  words,  and  slowly  prayed, 
And  blessed  them  there,  for  Jesus'  sake. 
Then  slowly  they  arose  and  passed, 
Still  silent,  voiceless  to  the  last. 
They  passed:  her  eyes  were  to  his  eyes, 
But  his  were  lifted  to  the  skies, 
As  looking,  looking,  that  lorn  night, 
Before  the  birth  of  God's  first-born 
As  praying  still  for  Light. 


XI. 

So  Phaon  knew  and  Sappho  knew 
Nor  night  nor  sadness  any  more .... 
How  new  the  old  world,  ever  new, 
When  white  Love  walks  the  shining  shore! 
They  found  their  long-lost  Eden,  found 
Her  old,  sweet  songs;  such  dulcet  sound 
Of  harmonies  as  soothe  the  ear 


When  Love  and  only  Love  can  hear. 
They  found  lost  Eden;  lilies  lay 
Along  their  path,  whichever  land 
They  journeyed  from  that  day. 


XII. 

They  never  died.     Great  loves  live  on. 
You  need  not  die  and  dare  the  skies 
In  forms  that  poo-r  creeds  hinge  upon 
To  pass  the  gates  of  Paradise. 
I  know  not  if  that  sword  of  flame 
Still  lights  the  North,  and  leads  the  same 
As  when  he  passed  the  gates  of  old. 
I  know  not  if  they  braved  the  bold, 
Defiant  walls  that  fronted  them 
Where  awful  Saint  Elias  broods, 
Wrapped  in  God's  garment-hem. 

I  only  know  they  found  the  lost, 
The  long-lost  Eden,  found  all  fair 
Where  naught  had  been  but  hail  and  frost; 
As  Love  finds  Eden  anywhere. 
And  wouldst  thou,  too,  live  on  and  on? 
Then  walk  with  Nature  till  the  dawn. 
Aye,  make  thy  soul  worth  saving— save 
Thy  soul  from  darkness  and  the  grave. 
Love  God  not  overmuch,  but  love 
God's  world  which  He  called  very  good; 
Then  lo,  Love's  white  sea-dove! 


XIII. 

I  know  not  where  lies  Eden-land; 
I  only  know  't  is  like  unto 
God's  kingdom,  ever  right  at  hand- 
Ever  right  here  in  reach  of  you. 
Put  forth  thy  hand,  or  great  or  small, 
In  storm  or  sun,  by  sea  or  wood, 
And  say,  as  God  hath  said  of  all, 
Behold,  it  all  is  very  good. 
I  know  not  where  lies  Eden-land; 
I  only  say  receive  the  dove: 
I  say  put  forth  thy  hand. 


Where  ai^'ful  Saint  r.lius  broods, 
in    (iod's   ^ar 


only  Love  can  hear, 
ost  Eden;  lilies  lay 
r  path,  whichever  laud 
eyed  from  that  day. 


XII. 


Th«y  never  died.     Great  loves  live  on. 
ou  n«*d  not  die  and  dare  the  skies 

poor  creeds  hinge  upon 
o  m<*  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

that  sword  of  flame 
he  North,  and  leads  the  same 
passed  the  gates  of  old. 
,1  they  braved  the  bold, 
«  that  fronted  them 
.  t  Elias  broods, 
garment-hem. 


.own  beK<*<  hey  fotmd  the  lost, 

found  all  fair 
-n.  but  hail  and  frost 
For  all  her  weary  te*»-  here. 

on  and  on? 
ledawn. 

The  b«a  ing— save 

His  two  I  antl  he  grave. 

Strange,  s<  la,  and,  iove 

And  blessed  theia  tb*r*,  ic  ^  very  good; 

Then  slowly  they  arose  and  ptt-  ,e»-dove! 

Still  silent,  voiceleafc 
They  passed:  her  eyes 
But  his  were  lifted  to  t 
As  looking,  looking,  tfc 
Before  the  birth  of  G 
As  praying  still  for  Light.  ^  ^  ^^ 

of  you. 

XI>  .;?;reat  or  small, 

„  ,  or  wood, 

So  Phaou'knew  and  Sa  },i(j  Of  all, 
Nor  night  nor  sadness  any  r 

How  new  the  old  world,  ever  ..  £^.1^; 

When  white  Love  walks  the  si  ne  dove: 

They  found  their  long-lost  Eden,  y  liand> 

Her  old,  sweet  songs;  such  dulcet  §•«  *          • 
harmonies  as  soothe  the  ear 


SAPPHO    AND    PHAON.  305 


"TO  MOTHER." 

And  oh,  the  voices  I  have  heard  ! 
Such  visions  where  the  morning  grows— 
A  brother's  soul  in  some  sweet  bird, 
A  sister's  spirit  in  a  rose. 

And  oh,  the  beauty  I  have  found! 
Such  beauty,  beauty  everywhere ; 
The  beauty  creeping  on  the  ground, 
The  beauty  singing  through  the  air. 

The  love  in  all,  the  good,  the  worth, 
The  God  in  all,  or  dusk  or  dawn; 
Good  will  to  man  and  peace  on  earth; 
The  morning  stars  sing  on  and  on. 

One  final  word  to  the  coming  poets  of  the  Sierras  and  the  great  Sea  and  the  Universal  Heart.  For  I  would 
have  them,  not  like  the  very  many  cedars  but  like  the  very  few  sequoias.  I  would  have  them  not  fear  the  ele 
ments,  or  seek  station  or  office  from  any  one;  to  owe  no  man;  only  God.  Yes,  I  know  — who  should  better 
know.?— how  long  and  lonely  and  terribly  dark  the  night  is  when  not  well  nourished  and  encouraged  by  earnest 
friends;  but  I  have  seen  some,  better,  abler  than  I,  halt,  falter,  fall,  from  very  excess  of  kindly  praise  and  patronage. 
My  coming  poets,  there  are  offices,  favors,  high  honors  within  the  gift  of  good  men,  and  good  men  are  many; 
but  the  gift  of  song  is  from  God  only.  Choose,  and  adhere  to  the  end;  for  we  cannot  serve  two  masters.  A 
good  citizen  you  may  be,  have  love,  peace,  plenty  to  the  end,  but  you  shall  not  even  so  much  as  ascend  the 
mountain  that  looks  down  upon  the  Promised  Laud,  however  much  you  may  be  made  to  believe  you  have  at 
tained  it  if  you  follow  mammon.  On  the  other  hand,  plain,  simple,  apart,  alone,  God  only  at  your  side,  you 
must  toil  by  day  and  meditate  by  night,  remembering  always  that  the  only  true  dignity  is  true  humility;  remem 
bering  always  that  the  only  true  humility  is  true  dignity.  Poverty,  pain,  persecution,  ingratitude,  scorn,  and  may 
be  obscurity  at  the  end.  But  always  and  through  all,  and  over  and  above  all,  Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity.  The 
greatest  and  the  humblest  that  has  been,  your  one  exemplor.  And  so,  following  Him,  shall  you  never  answer 
back  except  and  only  by  some  white  banner  set  on  your  own  splendid  and  inaccessible  summits:  the  flag  of  for 
giveness  and  good  will. 

If  then,  thus  informed  by  one  whose  feet  are  worn,  the  starry  steeps  of  song  be  still  your  aspiration,  don 
your  Capuchin  garb  and  with  staff  and  sandal  shoon  go  forth  alone  to  find  your  lofty  acre,  to  plant  and  water 
your  tree,  to  take  your  eternal  lessons  from  Him,  through  the  toil  of  bee  and  the  song  of  bird.  Nor  shall  you  iu 
your  lofty  seclusion  and  security  from  the  friction  and  roar  of  trade  for  one  day  escape  or  seek  to  escape  your 
duties  to  man.  The  poeta  are  God's  sentries  set  on  the  high  watch-towers  of  the  world.  You  must  see  with  the 
true  foresight  of  the  seer  of  old  the  coming  invasions,  the  internal  evils,  the  follies  of  your  age,  and  not  only  give 
warning  but  bravely  lead  to  triumph  or  perish,  as  the  prophets  of  old,  if  need  be. 

For  example,  by  what  right  shall  a  man  continue  to  devote  his  life  to  getting  and  getting  and  getting  from 
those  about  him,  and,  fostered  by  the  State  in  his  continual  getting,  cut  the  State  off  without  even  the  traditional 
shilling  when  he  has  done  with  his  gatherings  ?  All  great  men  have  to  leave  all  their  gettings  to  the  State  when 
they  go.  Why  shall  not  a  rich  man?  If  all  the  Rothschilds  should  die  to  -morrow  and  leave  all  their  riches  to 
England  they  would  not  all  together  leave  her  as  much  as  Shakespeare  left.  And  you,  too,  shall  break  the  horns 
of  strange  gods,  coming  from  over  this  ocean  or  that.  It  is  only  a  snake  that  has  two  heads  or  a  double  tongue. 

Take  another  example,  one  of  the  monstrous  evils  of  this  hour:  none  the  less  monstrous,  only  the  harder  to 
destroy  because  encouraged  and  under  the  protection  of  every  church  in  the  land.  To-day  we  are  wasting 
enough  to  buy  a  house  and  provide  a  pension  for  every  widow.  Poor  old  women  are  made  slaves,  down  on  their 
knees  scrubbing  to  pay  monstrous  ghouls  for  tawdry  funerals,  while  the  wishes  of  Dickens,  Hugo  and  the  like 
great  men  are  ignored.  And  largely,  too,  because  our  own,  sentimental; weaklings  choose  to  please  and  be 
made  popular  by  catering  to  the  dead  in  the  grave  instead  of  the  living  God  over  all;  doleful  night  birds  singing  of 
God's  Acre,  as  if  all  acres  were  not  God's.  When  the  great  poet  comes  he  will  lead  his  people  to  put  all  this 
in  the  hands  of  the  State,  so  that  we  [may  all  be  resolved,  earth  to  earth,  ashes  to  ashes,  simply  and  alike,  rich 
and  poor,  having  choice  only  as  to  the  kind,  not  the  price  of  funerals. 

Perhaps  the  greatest  source  of  sorrow,  sin,  in  this,  our  commercial  age,  is  the  periodical  "hard  times." 
There  should  be  nothing  of  that  sort.  True,  this  age  of  gold  and  of  getting  will  pass  as  the  age  of  stone  and  man 


306  SAPPHO    AND    PHAON. 


eating  passed,  but  our  work  is  with  our  own  age.  Then,  can  the  seer,  the  prophet,  priest,  poet  sing,  and  so  teach 
a  way  to  avert  this  tidal  wave  of  calamity  that  every  few  years  submerges  the  entire  Christian  world  ?  Let  us  look 
about  us.  In  the  first  place  why  does  China  in  all  her  thousands  of  prosperous  years,  notwithstanding  her  millions 
of  poor,  never  have  "  hard  times  ?  "  Simply  because  her  people  pay  their  debts.  That  is  the  secret  of  it.  At  the 
end  of  each  year  each  man  pays  his  debts;  then  there  is  a  feast,  and  not  till  then.  The  Jews  were  not  foolish  in 
their  generation;  they  are  not  foolish  now  you  will  agree.  And  why  had  they  never  such  periods  of  depression  ? 
For  the  same  reason;  they  paid  their  debts,  paid  their  debts  every  seven  years  instead  of  every  single  year.  And 
when  we  shall  have  a  law  like  that,  and  live  by  it,  the  very  name  "  hard  times  "  in  this  land  and  age  of  boundless 
abundance  can  be  turned  over  to  the  historian  forever.  The  Jews  let  business  go  at  loose  ends  nearly  seven  years, 
quite  as  long,  perhaps,  as  it  is  best  to  let  weak  human  nature  run  without  adjustment.  Then  they  compelled  an 
absolute  settlement;  then  they,  too  had  the  great  feast,  and  all  began  business  anew.  Even  the  Romans,  and  more 
than  once— but  only  when  compelled— burned  their  books  of  mortgage,  debt,  and  taxes. 

As  for  our  own  laws  of  limitations,  said  to  be  fashioned  after  those  of  the  Bible,  they  are  simply  a  delusion 
and  a  blank  falsehood.  The  money  lender  sits  down  with  you,  counts  up  the  interest,  compounds  it,  summons  you 
to  a  new  mortgage,  and  you  get  up  and  go  forth  tied  just  one  knot  tighter  than  before.  And  this  is  our  "  Statute 
of  Limitations !  ** 

What,  this  is  not  the  poet's  work !  Sir,  truth  is  the  poet's  sword,  and  his  battle  is  for  mankind.  I  like  the 
story  of  that  Orpheus  piping  on  a  hillside  till  people  sat  at  his  feet  to  hear  him  play;  and  so  built  a  city  there. 
Beautiful,  divinely  beautiful,  the  poet's  story  of  the  old  shepherd  king  who  had  his  strength  restored  each  time  the 
giant  threw  him  down  to  earth,  The  people  came  crowding  to  the  cities  then  as  now.  Ah!  never  was  a  great  poet 
needed  as  now.  These  themes,  or  such  themes  are  crying  out  continuously.  The  deaf  do  not  hear;  the  blind  can 
not  see.  The  seer  only  can  see.  "Let  me  sing  the  songs  and  I  care  not  who  make  the  laws." 

Clearly  then,  you  are  not  to  go  apart  in  consecration  for  your  own  ease,  least  of  all  for  your  own  glory.  The 
only  glory  that  can  long  attend  you  or  at  all  survive  you  is  the  glory  of  doing  good;  defending  the  weak,  guiding 
the  strong,  making  the  blind  to  see;  finding  your  reward  entirely  in  the  fact  that  you  loyally  lova  the  true,  the 
good  and  beautiful,  this  trinity  in  one. 

The  best  thing  any  town,  county,  state  or  nation  can  do  for  itself,  seen  in  the  coldest  and  most  commercial 
sense,  is  to  encourage  home,  heart  literature;  the  worst  thing  the  reverse.  There  should  be  a  system  of  pensions 
from  all,  or  at  least  of  scholarships,  from  centers  of  learning.  For  literature,  the  flower  of  civilization  and 
the  mother  and  nurse  of  men,  should  not  be  forever  left  to  chance  in  a  great  age  and  land  like  this.  Meantime, 
let  some  gentleman  of  fortune  who  reads  and  is  thrilled  by  "The  New  Liberty  Bell,  "or  like  thing,  quietly  set 
aside  a  bit  of  his  income  for  its  author.  Truly  it  will  be  "twice  blessed."  This  was  nothing  new  In  the  Old 
World,  from  Augustus  down,  and  was  never  so  fit  as  in  this  New  World,  where  new  work  is  to  be  done.  For 
new  work  is  so  hard  to  do,  and  so  hardly  received  when  done. 


ADIOS. 


307 


ADIOS. 

And  here,  sweet  friend,  I  go  my  way 
Alone,  as  I  have  lived,  alone 
A  little  way,  a  brief  half  day.. 
And  then,  the  restful,  while  milestone. 
I  know  not  surely  where  or  when, 
But  surely  know  we  meet  again, 
As  surely   know  we  love  anew 
In  grander  life  the  good  and  true; 
Shall  breathe  together  there  as  here 
Some  clearer,  sweeter   atmosphere, 
Shall  walk  high,  wider  ways  above 
Our  petty  selves,  shall  lean  to  lead 
Man  up  and  up  in  thought  and  deed.... 
Dear  soul,  sweet  friend,  I  love  you,  love 
The  love  that  led  you  patient  through 
This  wilderness  of  words  in  quest 
Of  strange  wild  flowers  from  my   West; 
But  here,  dear  heart,  Adieu. 


I. 

Yon  great  chained  sea-ship  chafes  to  be 
Once  more  unleashed  without  the  Gate 
On  proud  Balboa's  boundless  sea, 
And  I  chafe  with  her,  for  I  hate 
The  rust  of  rest,  the  dull  repose, 
The  fawning  breath  of  changeful  foes, 
Whose  blame  through  all  my  bitter  days 
I  have  endured;  spare  me  their  praise! 
I  go,  full  hearted,  grateful,  glad 
Of  strength  from  dear  good  mother  earth; 
And  yet  am  I  full  sad. 

n. 

Could  I  but  teach  man  to  believe — 
Could  I  but  make  small  men  to  grow, 
To  break  frail  spider-webs  that  weave 
About  their  thews  and  bind  them  low; 
Could  I  but  sing  one  song  and  slay 


Grim  Doubt;  I  then  could  go  my  way 
In  tranquil  silence,  glad,  serene, 
And  satisfied,  from  off  the  scene. 
But  ah,  this  disbelief,  this  doubt, 
This  doubt  of  God,  this  doubt  of  good,- 
The  damned  spot  will  not  out! 

in. 

Grew  once  a  rose  within  my  room 
Of  perfect  hue,  of  perfect  health; 
Of  such  perfection  and  perfume, 
It  filled  my  poor  house  with  its  wealth. 
Then  came  the  pessimist  who  knew 
Not  good  or  grace,  but  overthrew 
My  rose,  and  in  the  broken  pot 
Nosed  fast  for  slugs  within  the  rot. 
He  found,  found  with  exulting  pride, 
Deep  in  the  loam,  a  worm,  a  slug; 
The  while  my  rose-tree  died. 


308 


ADIOS. 


IV. 

Yea,  ye  did  hurt  me.     Joy  in  this. 
Receive  great  joy  at  last  to  know, 
Since  pain  is  all  your  world  of  bliss, 
That  ye  did,  hounding,  hurt  me  so! 
But  mute  as  bayed  stag  on  his  steeps, 
Who   keeps    his    haunts,   and,   bleeding, 

keeps 
His  breast  turned,  watching  where  they 

come, 

Kept  I,  defiant,  and  as  dumb. 
But  comfort  ye;  your  work  was  done 
With  devils'  cunning,  like  the  mole 
That  lets  the  life-sap  run. 

And  my  revenge?    My  vengeance  is 
That  I  have  made  one  rugged  spot 
The  fairer;  that  I  fashioned  this 
While  envy,  hate,  and  falsehood  shot 
Rank  poison;  that  I  leave  to  those 
Who  shot,  for  arrows,  each  a  rose; 
Aye,  labyrinths  of  rose  and  wold, 
Acacias  garmented  in  gold, 
Bright    fountains,    where  birds   come  to 

drink; 

Such  clouds  of  cunning,  pretty  birds, 
And  tame  as  you  can  think. 

v. 

Come  here  when  I  am  far  away, 
Fond  lovers  of  this  lovely  land, 
And  sit  quite  still  and  do  not  say, 
Turn  right  or  left,  or  lift  a  hand, 
But  sit  beneath  my  kindly  trees 
And  gaze  far  out  yon  sea  of  seas:— 
These  trees,  these  very  stones,  could  tell 
How  long  I  loved  them,  and  how  well — 
And  maybe  I  shall  come  and  sit 
Beside  you;  sit  so  silently 
You  will  not  reck  of  it. 


VI. 

The  old  desire  of  far,  new  lands, 
The  thirst  to  learn,  to  still  front  storms, 
To  bend  my  knees,  to  lift  my  hands 
To  God  in  all  His  thousand  forms— 
These  lure  and  lead  as  pleasantly 
As  old  songs  sung  anew  at  sea. 
But,  storied  lands  or  stormy  deeps, 
I  will  my  ashes  to  my  steeps — 
I  will  my  steeps,  green  cross,  red  rose, 
To  those  who  love  the  beautiful- 
Come,  learn  to  be  of  those. 


VII. 

The  sun  has  draped  his  couch  in  red; 
Night  takes  the  warm  world  in  his  arms 
And  turns  to  their  espousal  bed 
To  breathe  the  perfume  of  her  charms: 
The  great  sea  calls,  and  I  descend 
As  to  the  call  of  some  strong  friend. 
I  go,  not  hating  any  man, 
But  loving  Earth  as  only  can 
A  lover  suckled  at  her  breast 
Of  beauty  from  his  babyhood, 
And  roam  to  truly  rest. 


VIII. 

God  is  not  far;  man  is  not  far 

From  Heaven's  porch,  where  paeans  roll. 

Man  yet  shall  speak  from  star  to  star 

In  silent  language  of  the  soul; 

Yon  star-strewn  skies  be  but  a  town, 

With  angels  passing  up  and  down. 

"  I  leave  my  peace  with  you."  Lo!  these 

His  seven  wounds,  the  Pleiades 

Pierce  Heaven's  porch.  But,  resting  there, 

The  new  moon  rocks  the  Child  Christ  in 

Her  silver  rocking-chair. 


These  poems,  "Songs  of  the  Soul,"  although  long  in  the  wearer's  loom,  and  giTen  to  the  world  now  and 
then  in  shreds  through  the  magazines,  were,  the  most  of  them,  not  gathered  into  book  form  until  1896,  when  they 
were  published  by  my  present  San  Francisco  publishers 


NEW   POEMS. 


309 


NEW    POEMS. 


ENGLAND'S  LION. 

And  England's  lion  is  shorn  and  shamed? 
And  England's  valor  is  dead  to-day? 
And  England's  daring   is    dulled    and 

tamed? 
And  England's  heart  is  unmanned,  men 

say? 

No,  never  a  whit ;  give  England's  men 
A  cause,  fit  cause,  and  behold  them  then ! 

But  send  them  forth  to  loot  and  to  burn, 
Turn  babes  and  women  and  bent  old  men 
Unhoused  to  the  rain,  to  ruthless  turn 
The  plowshare  back  to  the  sword,  and 

then 

Ask  them  to   believe  that  this  blood- 
soaked  sod 
Is  won  from  women  in  the  name  of  God. 

Your  soldier  is  scarce  the  "machine" 

to-day 

You  mowed  with  at  Lexington,  Waterloo. 
He  is  learning  to  read,  to  think,  and  to 

say, 

To  see  and  to  feel,  as  well  as  to  do. 
And  he  feels  how  braver  to  build  a  town 
Or  a  home  for  babes  than  to  burn  one 

down. 

He  remembers  a  pale  Boer  lad  who  bled — 
Bled  praying  and  fighting,  and  fighting 

alone  — 

Fighting  and  dying  'mid  a  ring  of  dead 
Gathered  about  in  a  gory  zone. 
And  he  almost  envies  that  dead  boy  there 
In  battle  harness,  with  his  yellow  hair. 

Listen  to  this !    A  battle  was  on ; 
The  usual  battle  of  twenty  to  one  .  .  . 


The  battle  was  over,  the  British  were 

gone; 

Their  officer  dead ;  one  empty  gun  .  .  . 
Yes,  your  "  machine,"  in  the  heat  of  the 

fray, 
Had  dared  to  think  and  to  do,  that  day. 


THE  FOURTH  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 

Read  in  many  cities,  July  4, 1900. 

Come,  let  us  light  the  torch  anew, 
The  old-time  torch,  in  triple  flame, 
And  keep  it  flaming,  fierce  and  true, 
On    Freedom's    height,    in   Freedom's 

name. 

Forgive  us,  Washington,  that  we 
Forgot  a  time,  and  turned  an  ear 
To  England's  clink  of  gold,  to  hear 
Her  siren  songs  of  flattery. 
Forgive  us,  Franklin,  Warren,  Hale ; 
We  half-believed  her :  now  we  know 
Her  friendship,  flattery  but  show, 
Her  shot,  where  bullets  fail. 

What    mean    yon    hundred    thousand 

swords, 

The  thousand  cannons'  angry  roar, 
Armed  hosts  in  helmets,  hordes  on  hordes, 
Hurled  at  the  peaceful,  free-born  Boer? 
They  mean  that  England  dares  to  say, 
Set  back  the  clock ;  that  might  is  right,  — 
As  when  the  wolf's  whelp  howled  her 

day, 

Then  slunk  back,  whining,  into  night. 
They  mean,  she  mocks  the  rights  of  man ; 
They  mean,  that  she  is  mouthing  yet, 
"  Now  let  him  get  who  dares  to  get, 
And  let  him  keep  who  can." 


310 


NEW    POEMS. 


What  means  this  sea-girt  citadel, 
With  guns  that  shake  Pacific's  shores? 
This  new  Gibraltar,  shot  and  shell 
In  pyramids  piled  at  our  doors? 
Shot  and  shell,  and  guns  that  sweep 
Our  inland  seas,  Alaska's  bay? 
What!   needs  she  these  great  guns  to 

keep 

The  peace  in  peaceful  Canada? 
We  hear  kind  words,  most  cunning  fair, 
Yet  see  that  fortress  rise  and  rise ! 
Are  kindly  words  but  cunning  lies? 
What  means  that  fortress  there? 

Such  cunning  words,  such  coward  lips,  — 
Aye,  aye,  forgive,  but  not  forget : 
Our  dying,  starved  in  prison-ships ; 
Our  dying,  thrust  with  bayonet,  — 
Just  as  to-day  she  treats  the  Boer, 
Just  as  she  treats  all  weaker  ones 
Who  dare  defend  an  humble  door 
With  dauntless  hearts  and  honest  guns  ; 
Just  as  she  would,  did  she  but  dare, 
Treat  us  again ;  just  as  she  will, 
The  day  we  swallow  her  sweet  snare 
Of '  diplomatic  "  swill. 

Diplomacy?    Despise  the  name ; 
Dpspise  that  "  diplomatic  "  Power, 
That  sends  a  sister  Queen  to  shame, 
That  strangles  Princes  in  her  Tower, 
That  courts  the  rich,  that  robs  the  poor, 
That  scorns  the  weak,  yet  bends  the  knee 
To  strength,   that  begs  from  door  to 

door, — 

And  calls  it  all  diplomacy ! 
We  will  not  this.    No  midnight  way ! 
We  could  not  match  this  if  we  would ; 
We  would  not  match  this  if  we  could : 
For  Us,  full,  frank,  white  day. 

Come,  let  us  show  this  cringing  Power, 
That  sacked  our  cities,  burned  our  Fane, 
That  Freedom  keeps  her  high  watch- 
tower  ; 
That  Bunker  Hill  was  not  in  vain  ! 


Come,  let  us  heap  the  altar's  flame, 
And  swear  our  sons  as  Hamilcar 
Sware  Hannibal,  to  hate,  abhor, 
Her    cunning,    crimes,    her    shameless 

shame. 

Yet  fear  not  ship  nor  battle  square : 
Let  laugh  at  these,  or  far  or  near. 
Fear  not  her  hate,  but  rather  fear 
Her  love :  her  love  beware ! 

Her  plundered  millions  starving  die, 

The  while  she  wades  blood  to  the  knee ! 

Her  love  of  Jesus  is  a  lie, 

A  Judas  kiss,  —  Gethsemane ! 

She  wears  a  cloak  but  to  decoy. 

This  land  she  hates ;  hates,  as  she  fears ; 

This  land  she  twice  strove  to  destroy,  — 

Twice  drenched  in  blended  blood  and 

tears. 
Keep  her  arm's-length,  a  great  gun's- 

lengt^I 

Her  creed  is  but  the  creed  of  gain, 
Low  lust  of  gain,  on  land  or  main : 
Her  god,  the  god  of  strength ! 

The  crouching,  cat-like  lion  lifts 
A  paw  to  show  the  claws  are  sheathed : 
"Beware  the  sleek  Greek  bearing  gifts 
Of  honey,  with  white  roses  wreathed." 
One  paw  for  peace,  one  merged  in  gore ; 
One  reached  to  beg  alliance,  one 
To  crush  fair  Freedom  and  the  Boer, 
Or  coward  lies  or  lyddite  gun ! 
Are  we  but  babes !    Shall  we  receive 
One  outstretched  paw,  one  reeking  thus? 
Who  but  a  child  can  but  believe 
They  build  to  next  strike  Us? 

Brave  lads  of  Lexington,  brave  men 
Of  Concord  farms,  who  fired  the  gun 
Heard  round  the  world,  heard  now  as 

then; 

Brave  Boer-land  or  brave  Lexington, 
We  pledge  ye  we  will  not  forget ; 
We  pledge  ye,  this  new  hundred-year, 
That  yon  merged  paw,  all  reeking  wet 


NEW    POEMS. 


311 


With  Freedom's  blood,  shall  not  rule 

here, 

Not  rest  here,  reach  here,  while  we  live ! 
Ye  gave  us  Freedom :  what  can  we 
Give  less  to  Freedom  than  to  give 
And  consecrate  this  Century? 


ARTESIA  OF  TULARE. 

An  old  Scotch  shepherd  with  a  tale 
Of  crofter  strife,  heart-broken  wife ; 
A  barefoot  girl,  sad-eyed  and  pale ; 
A  dog,  a  gun,  a  buckhorn  knife ; 
With  garments  torn,  with  face  unshorn 
And  all  his  better  life  outworn ; 
But  then  his  fond  white  flock  of  sheep 
Where  still,  Tulare's  waters  creep : 

Fair,  level  water,  willow-lined, 
The  one  loved  stream  in  all  that  land ! 
You  should  have  seen  it  wind  and  wind 
Through  unfenced  seas  of  loam  and  sand 
Long  years  ago,  with  here  and  there 
A  shaggy  wolf,  a  waiting  bear, 
When  this  stout-hearted,  lorn  old  man 
Kept  flock  as  only  Scotchmen  can  ! 

And  how  he  loved  Tulare's  bank, 
And  planned  to  buy,  and  build,  and  rest, 
The  while  his  white  flock  fed  and  drank. 
Aye,  he  had  thrift,  and  of  the  best, 
And  back,  where  no  rich  man  laid  hands, 
Had  bought  and  bought  wide  desert  lands . 
But  sudden  came  the  rich  and  strong  — 
The  old,  old  tale  of  cruel  wrong. 


"I  '11  have  his  lands,' 
cried ; 


the  rich  man 


"His  lands   are   broad    as    his    Scotch 

brogue  -  - 

That 's  saying  they  are  broad  and  wide. 
I  '11  have  his  lands !    He  calls  me  rogue. 
Out,  out !  —  away !    I  will  not  spare 
One  drop  from  that  deep  river  there." 


And,  banished  so,  they  sadly  turned, 
The  barefoot  lass,  the  bent  old  man, 
To  where  the  barren  desert  burned  — 
His  dog,  his  gun,  a  water-can ; 
His  white  flock  bleating  on  before, 
All  loath  to  leave  the  watered  shore ; 
His  dog  with  drooping  tail  and  ears ; 
His  barefoot,  tattered  child  in  tears. 

They  found  a  rounded  mound  not  far, 
That  rose  above  the  sage  and  sand, 
Where  one  great  willow,  like  a  star 
In  some  dark  night,  stood  green  and 

grand. 

And  here  the  can  and  gun  were  swung 
In  grief,  as  when  lorn  Israel  hung 
Her  harp  on  willow  tree  and  kept 
Sad  silence  where  she  sat  and  wept. 

The  dog  crouched  fretful  at  their  feet ; 
The  woolly  fold  crept  close  with  fear, 
And  one  meek  lamb  did  bleat  and  bleat, 
So  pitiful,  so  sadly  drear, 
The  girl  crept  from  the  bowed  old  man, 
Reached  up  and  took  the  water-can, 
And  gave  it  water  while  he  slept, 
The  while  she  silent  wept  and  wept. 

Then  came  gaunt  wolves  —  all  sudden 

came  — 

And  sat  in  circle  close  below  I 
The  dog  sprang  up,  his  eyes  aflame, 
And  all  his  frame  did  quiver  so ! 
Then  like  a  shot  right  forth  he  sped,  .  .  . 
Crept  back  all  blood,  then  fell  down  dead. 
She  snatched  the  gun.    No  more  she 

wept, 
But  watched,   the  while  the  shepherd 

slept. 

Then  came  the  moon.     Vast  peaks  of 

snow 

Flashed  silver  from  Sierra's  height, 
And  lit  the  lonely  scene  below 
As  if  with  some  unearthly  light — 
A  light  that  only  made  a  gloom 


312 


NEW    POEMS. 


'Mid  silence,  space,  and  shoreless  room. 
Why,  all  that  moonlit  scene  but  seemed 
Such     as     half-maddened     men    have 
dreamed. 

At  last  the  sun  burst  like  a  flame, 
And  shaggy  wolves  fled  from  the  light. 
Then  wide-eyed,  wondering  rabbits  came 
And  stood  in  circle  left  and  right. 
They  stood  so  graceful,  trim,  and  tall, 
You  might  have  guessed  this  was  a  ball 
Where  dainty  dancers,  slim  and  neat, 
Stood  waiting  with  impatient  feet. 

The  old  man  wakened.    Why,  his  fold 
Had  crept  so  close  ere  break  of  morn, 
That  he  reached  out  and  there  laid  hold 
Of  his  huge  ram  by  one  curled  horn ! 
But  then  the  dog !    Ah,  there  were  tears ! 
He  scarce  had  wept  for  years  and  years, 
But  now  it  seemed  his  heart  would  break 
In  sorrow  for  that  dead  brute's  sake. 

He  said  no  word,  but  silent  took 
In  his  broad,  heavy,  honest  hand 
His  long,  strong,  steel-shod  shepherd's 

crook, 

And  digged  a  deep  grave  in  the  sand. 
But  why  so  eager  now?    So  wild? 
He  turns,  he  catches  up  his  child : 
"My  bairn,  my  bairn,  my  eyes  are  dim ; 
But  bide  ye,  bide,  and  trust  to  Him !  " 

Away  he  sped ;  and  soon  he  brought 
From  some  old  camp  a  long  black  rod 
On  his  bent  back.    Then,  as  he  wrought, 
She  thought  of  Moses ;  prayed  to  God 
That  water  for  the  thirsting  flock 
Might  flow  as  from  the  smitten  rock, 
And  save  her  father  —  save  him  sane 
There  in  that  fearful  desert  plain. 


He  forced  the  black  tube  through  the 

sod 

Beneath  the  waving  willow  tree, 
With  giant's  strength.    Then,  as  if  God 
Had  heard,  it  sank,  sank  swift  and  free  — 
Sank   sudden   through   the  slime  and 

sand, 
Sank  deep,    slid   swift,    slid    from    his 

hand! 

He  caught  his  gun ;  he  madly  wrenched 
The  barrel  out  and  thrust  this  down ; 
And  then  he  fell  back  drenched,  fell 

drenched 

With  floods  that  leapt  as  if  to  drown ! 
And  all  Tulare  came  to  drink, 
As  happy-faced  as  you  can  think. 


USLAND  TO  ENGLAND.* 

A  PLEA  IN  EQUITY.— July  4, 1901. 

Blind  bully,  Samson,  grinding  so, 
We  laugh,  we  laugh  to  hear  you  roar, 
The  while  you  boast  you  shot  a  Boer 
And  burned  his  house  and  all  within ! 
Why,  donkey  with  the  lion's  skin, 
You  did  all  this  to  Us  of  yore, 
And  j^et  —  we  banged  you,  doan-cher- 
kneow  ! 

We  banged  you,  banged  you,  laid  you 

low, 

At  Saratoga,  York,  and  such  — 
We  Irish,  English,  Scotch,  and  Dutch ! 
Then  learn  to  let  such  folks  alone ; 
Then  learn  to  let  King  George's  throne 
Remember ;  it  won't  cost  you  much  — 
But  then  —  you  're  English,  doan-cher- 

kneow! 


*  The  committee  which  climbed  my  Eights  to  ask  a  poem  for  the  Fourth,  1901,  was  partly 
English.  I  declined,  having  done  some  lines  only  the  year  before.  But  the  parties  still  insisted; 
and  none  so  persistently  as  the  English  part  of  the  committee.  I  protested,  that  I  could  only 
write  as  I  felt.  The  committee  still  begged,  and  I  wrote  this,  with  all  my  heart. 


NEW   POEMS. 


313 


And  we  're  your  sons!  But  we  shall 
grow, 

Grow  fairly,  squarely,  tall,  alone  — 

A  continent  that  scorns  a  throne ! 

What  makes  us  Usmen  want  the 
earth, 

And  all  Acadia's  wealth  and  worth  — 

All  earth  and  Canada,  our  own? 

Why,  we  're  part  English,  doan-cher- 
kneow  ! 

Invader,  vandal,  Freedom's  foe, 
The  time  has  come  when  you  must  pay 
For  towns  you  burned,  or  —  Canada! 
We  banged  you  twice,   can  bang   you 

thrice  — 

Old  man,  there  's  music  in  the  air ! 
Get  out,  get  off,  and  call  it  square, 
Or  music,  music,  doan-cher-kneow ! 

Fair  sister  of  the  sun  and  snow, 
Broad  Canada,  brave,  stanch,  and  true — 
What  star  to  stud  our  field  of  blue ! 
And  if  your  king,  Edward  the  Fat, 
Should  signify  he  don't  like  that, 
Why,  we  '11  annex  old  England  too  — 
We  yearn  for  islands,  doan-cher-kneow ! 


BOSTON  TO  THE  BOERS.* 

"  For  the  right  that  needs  assistance, 
For  the  wrong  that  needs  resistance, 
For  the  glory  in  the  distance, 
For  the  good  that  we  can  do." 

"  For  Freedom's  battles  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  from  bleeding  sire  to  son, 
Though  baffled  oft,  are  ever  won."— BYEON. 

The  Sword  of  Gideon,  Sword  of  God, 
Be  with  ye,  Boers.    Brave  men  of  peace, 
Ye  hewed  the  path,  ye  brake  the  sod, 
Ye  fed  white  flocks  of  fat  increase, 
Where  Saxon  foot  had  never  trod ; 
Where  Saxon  foot  unto  this  day 
Had  measured  not,  had  never  known, 
Had  ye  not  bravely  led  the  way 
And  made  such  happy  homes  your  own." 

I  think  God's  house  must  be  such  home. 
The  priestess  Mother,  choristers 
Who  spin  and  weave,  nor  care  to  roam 
Beyond  this  white  God's  house  of  hers, 
But  spinning  sing  and  spin  again. 
I  think  such  silent  shepherd  men 
Most  like  that  few  the  prophet  sings  — 
Most  like  that  few  stout  Abram  drew 
Triumphant  o'er  the  slaughtered  kings. 


*  My  first,  best  friends  were  British.  They  still  are,  and  so  far  from  finding  fault  that  I  favor 
the  Boers,  they  exult  that  I  dare  for  the  right.  They  are  the  better  class  of  British.  England's 
best  friends  to-day  are  those  who  deplore  this  assault  on  the  farmer  Boers,  so  like  ourselves  a  cen 
tury  back.  Could  any  man  be  found  strong  enough  to  stay  her  hand,  with  sword  or  pen,  in  this 
mad  hour,  that  man  would  deserve  her  lasting  gratitude.  This  feeling  holds  in  England  as  well 
as  here.  Take  for  example  the  following  from  her  ablest  thinker  to  a  friend  in  America:  — 

"  I  rejoice  that  you  and  others  are  bent  on  showing  that  there  are  some  among  us  who  think 
the  national  honor  is  not  being  enhanced  by  putting  down  the  weak.  Would  that  age  and  ill 
health  did  not  prevent  me  from  aiding.  No  one  can  deny  that  at  the  time  of  the  Jameson  Raid 
the  aim  of  the  Outlanders  and  the  raiders  was  to  usurp  the  Transvaal  government,  and  he  must 
be  willfully  blind  who  does  not  see  what  the  Outlanders  failed  to  do  by  bullets  they  hope  pres 
ently  to  do  by  votes,  and  only  those  who,  while  jealous  of  their  own  independence,  regard  but 
little  the  independence  of  people  who  stand  in  their  way,  can  fail  to  sympathize  with  the  Boers 
in  their  resistance  to  political  extinction.  It  is  sad  to  see  our  government  backing  those  whose 
avowed  policy  is  expansion,  which,  less  politely  expressed,  means  aggression,  for  which  there  is  a 
still  less  polite  word  readily  guessed.  On  behalf  of  these,  the  big  British  Empire,  weapon  in  hand, 
growls  out  to  the  little  Boer  republic, '  Do  as  I  bid  you.'  I  have  always  thought  that  nobleness 
is  shown  in  treating  tenderly  those  who  are  relatively  feeble  and  even  sacrificing  on  their  behalf 
something  to  which  there  is  a  just  claim.  But  if  current  opinion  is  right,  I  must  have  been 
wrong.  — HERBERT  SPENCER," 


314 


NEW    POEMS. 


Defend  God's  house !    Let  fall  the  crook. 
Draw  forth  the  plowshare  from  the  sod, 
And  trust,  as  in  the  Holy  Book, 
The  Sword  of  Gideon  and  of  God ; 
God  and  the  right !    Enough  to  fight 
A  million  regiments  of  wrong. 
Defend !    Nor  count  what  comes  of  it. 
God's  battle  bides  not  with  the  strong ; 
And  pride  must  fall.    Lo,  it  is  writ ! 

Great  England's  Gold !  how  stanch  she 

fares, 
Fame's    wine-cup    pressing    her    proud 

lips  — 

Her  checker-board  of  battle  squares 
Rimmed    round    by    steel-built    battle 
ships! 

And  yet  meanwhiles  ten  thousand  miles 
She  seeks  ye  out.    Well,  welcome  her ! 
Give  her  such  welcome  with  such  will 
As  Boston  gave  in  battle's  whir 
That  red,  dread  day  at  Bunker  Hill. 


TO  YE  FIGHTING  LORDS  OF  LON 
DON  TOWN. 

CHRISTMAS  MORNING,  1899. 

"The  equipment  of  the  Maine  hospital-ship 
by  our  American  cousins  warrants  us  in  saying 
at  least  that  they  wish  us  well." 

We  wish  you  well  in  all  that 's  well, 
Would  bind  your  wounds,  would  clothe, 

would  feed  — 

Lay  flowers  where  your  brave  men  fell 
In  desert  lands,  exalt  each  deed 
Of  sacrifice ;  would  beg  to  lay 
White  lilies  by  the  gray  hearthstone 
Where,  bowed  in  black  this  Christmas 

morn, 

A  mother  wails  her  brave  first-born, 
And  weeps  so,  more  than  all  alone : 
Weeps  while  the  chime,  the  chilly  chime, 


Drops  on  her  heart,  drops  all  the  time 
As  one  might  drop  a  stone. 

But  you,  ye  lords  and  gentlemen, 
High-throned,  safe-housed  at  home,  fat- 
fed, 

When  ye  say  we  approve  ye,  when 
Ye  say  this  blood  so  bravely  shed 
Is  shed  with  our  consent,  take  care 
Lest  Truth  may  take  ye  unaware ; 
Lest    Truth    be    heard    despite    these 

chimes. 
This  hearthstone,  brother's  blood  that 

cries 

To  God  is  Freedom's  blood.    Take  care 
Lest  all  sweet  earth  these  piteous  times 
Not  only  hate  ye  for  your  crimes, 
But  scorn  ye  for  your  lies  ! 

We  would  forgive  could  we  forget : 
We  could  forget  all  wrongs  we  knew 
Had  ye  stayed  hand  some  little  yet  — 
Left  to  their  own  that  farmer  few 
So  like  ourselves  that  fateful  hour 
Ye  forced  our  farmers  from  the  plow 
To  grapple  with  your  tenfold  power. 
They  guessed  your  greed;  we  know  it 

now ; 

And  now  we  ward  ye  from  this  hour ! 
Now,  well  awake,  no  more  we  sleep, 
But  keep  and  keep  and  ever  keep 
To  Freedom's  high  watch-tower. 

Not  all  because  our  Washington 
In  battle's  carnage,  years  and  years, 
And  this  same  Boer  braved  ye  as  one  — 
Blent  blood  with  blood  and  tears  with 

tears : 

Not  all  because  of  kindred  blood, 
Not  all  because  they  built  a  town 
And  left  such  names  of  true  renown. 
Not  all  because  of  Luther,  Huss : 
But  most  because  of  Brotherhood 
In  Freedom's  Hall ;  the  holy  right 
To  fight  for  Home,  as  freemen  fight  — 
Who  Freedom  stabs,  stabs  Us ! 


NEW    POEMS. 


315 


ANGLO-SAXON  ALLIANCE. 

England's  Colonial  Secretary,  who  must  bear 
a  great  part  of  the  blame  and  shame  of  this 
Boer  war,  has  said  publicly,  that  there  is  some 
thing  like  alliance  between  England  and  the 
United  States.  Our  Secretary  of  State  says 
there  is  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  we  know  there 
is  not,  nor  can  be,  until  "We,  the  People," 
choose  to  have  it,  and  that  will  not  be  until 
this  crime  against  the  Boer  is  forgotten,  as  well 
as  Bunker  Hill  and  the  Fourth  of  July. 

Alliance!  And  with  whom?  For  what? 
Comes  there  the  skin-clad  Vandal  down 
From  Danube's  wilds  with  vengeance 

hot? 

Comes  Turk  with  torch  to  sack  the  town 
And  wake  the  world  with  battle-shot? 
Come  wild   beasts  loosened   from    the 

lair? 

No,  no !  Right  fair  blue  Danube  sweeps. 
No,  no !  The  Turk,  the  wild  beast,  sleeps. 
No,  no!  There  's  something  more  than 

this  — 

Or  Judas'  kiss?    Or  serpent's  hiss? 
There 's  mischief  in  the  air ! 

Alliance!    And  with  whom?    For  what? 
Did  we  not  bear  an  hundred  years 
Of  England's  hate,  hot  battle-shot, 
Blent,  ever  blent,  with  scorn  and  jeers? 
And  we  survived  it,  did  we  not? 
We  bore  her  hate ;  let 's  try  to  bear 
Her  love ;  but  watch  her,  and  beware ! 
Beware  the  Greek  with  gifts  and  fair 
Kind  promises  and  courtly  praise. 
Beware  the  serpent's  subtle  ways  — 
There 's  mischief  in  the  air ! 

Alliance!  And  for  what?  With  whom? 
She  burned  our  Freedom's  Fane.  She 

spat 

Vile  venom  on  the  sacred  tomb 
Ot  Washington  ;  the  while  she  sat 
High-throned,  fat-fed,  and  safe  at  home, 
And  bade  slaves  hound  and  burn  and 

slay, 
Just  as  in  Africa  to-day ; 


Just  as  she  would,  will  when  she  dare, 
Send  sword  and  torch,  and  once  again 
Make  red  the  white  rim  of  our  main  — 
There 's  mischief  in  the  air ! 

Alliance !  Twice  with  sword  and  flame : 
Alliance !  Thrice  with  craft  and  fraud : 
And  now  you  come  in  Freedom's  name. 
In  Freedom's  name?  The  name  of  God ! 
Go  to  —  the  Boers.  For  shame,  for 

shame ! 

With  wedge  of  gold  you  split  us  twain, 
Then  launched  your  bloodhounds  on  the 

main ; 

But  now,  my  lords,  so  soft,  so  fair  — 
How  long  would  this  a-lie-ance  last? 
Just  long  enough  to  tie  Us  fast  — 
Then  music  in  the  air ! 


INDIA  AND  THE  BOERS. 

"The  Boers  are  a  sober,  industrious,  and  most 
hospitable  body  of  peasantry."  — DR.  LIVING 
STONE. 

You  heard  that  song  of  the  Jubilee ! 
Ten  thousand  cannon  took  up  the  song, 
Ten  million  people  came  out  to  see, 
A  surging,  eager,  and  anxious  throng. 
And  the  great  were  glad  as  glad  could  be ; 
Glad  at  Windsor,  glad  at  Saint  James, 
Glad  of  glory  and  of  storied  names, 
Generals,  lords,  and  gentlemen, 
Such  as  we  never  may  see  again, 
And  ten  thousand  banners  a-flying ! 
But  up  the  Thames  and  down  the  Thames 
Bare,  hungered  babes  lay  crying, 
Poor,  homeless  men  sat  sighing ; 
And  far  away,  in  fair  Cathay, 
An  Eden  land  but  yesterday, 
Lay  millions,  starving,  dying. 

Prone  India !     All  her  storied  gems  — 
Those  stolen  gems  that  decked  the  Crown 


316 


NEW   POEMS. 


And  glittered  in  those  garment-hems, 
That  Jubilee  in  London  town  — 
Were  not,  and  all  her  walls  were  down, 
Her  plowshare  eaten  up  with  rust, 
Her  peaceful  people  prone  in  dust, 
Her  wells  gone  dry  and  drying. 

You  ask,  How  came  these  things  to  be? 
I  turn  you  straight  to  historie ; 
To  generals,  lords,  and  gentlemen 
Who  cut  the  dykes,  blew  down  the  wralls, 
And  plowed  the  land  with  cannon-balls, 
Then  sacked  the  ruined  land,  and  then  — 
Great  London  and  the  Jubilee, 
With  lying  banners  a-flying. 

Eight  millions  starved  to  death!    You 

hear?* 

You  heard  the  song  of  that  Jubilee, 
And  you  might  have  heard,  had  you 

given  ear, 

My  generals,  lords,  and  gentlemen, 
From  where  the  Ganges  seeks  the  sea, 
Such  wails  between  the  notes,  I  fear, 
As  you  never  had  cared  to  hear  again. 
The  dead  heaped  down  in  the  dried-up 

wells, 

The  dead,  like  corn,  in  the  fertile  fields 
You  had  plowed  and  crossed  with  your 

cannon  wheels, 
The  dead  in  towns  that  were  burning 

hells 

Because  the  water  was  under  your  heels ! 
They  thirsted !  You  drank  at  the  Jubilee, 
My  generals,  lords,  and  gentlemen, 
Drank  as  you  hardly  may  come  to  when 
The  final  account  of  your  deeds  may  be. 


Eight  millions   starved!    Yet   the  Ju 
bilee- 
Why,  never  such  glory  since  Solomon's 

throne. 

The  world  was  glad  that  it  came  to  see, 
And  the  Saxon  said,  "Lo,  the  world  is 

mine  own ! " 
But  mark  you!    That  glittering  great 

Crown  stone, 
And  the  thousand  stars  that  dimmed  in 

this  sun, 

Were  stolen,  were  stolen  every  one, 
Were  stolen  from  those  who  starved  and 
died! 

Brave  Boers,  grim  Boers,  look  to  your 

guns! 
They  want  your  diamonds,  these  younger 

ones  — 

Young  generals,  lords,  and  gentlemen  — 
Robbers  to-day  as  they  were  robbers  then. 
Look  to  your  guns !  for  a  child  can  see 
(Can  your  children  see  now  for  crying?) 
That  they  want  your  gems!    Ah,  that 

Jubilee, 
With  those  lying  banners  a-flying ! 


AT  THE  CALEND'S  CLOSE. 

"  For  faith  hath  still  an  Olivet 
And  Love  a  Galilee." 

Two  things :  the  triple  great  North  Star, 
To  poise  and  keep  His  spheres  in  place, 

And  Zeus  for  peace :  for  peace  the  Tzar. 
Or  Science,  Progress,  Good,  or  Grace, 


*  See  report  of  Julian  Hawthorne,  sent  by  a  NewYork  magazine  to  photograph  and  give  details 
of  the  starving  in  India,  about  the  time  of  the  Jubilee.  He  does  not  give  these  figures,  but  his 
facts  and  photographs  warrant  a  fearful  estimate.  As  for  the  subjugation  of  India,  and  the  wanton 
destruction,  not  only  of  life,  but  also  of  the  very  means  of  life,  this  is  history.  And  now,  again,  is 
despoiled  India  starving,  —  starving,  dying  of  hunger  as  before;  even  more  fearfully,  even  while 
England  is  trying  to  despoil  the  Boers.  And  when  her  speculators  and  politi  jians  have  beaten 
them,  and  despoiled  them  of  their  gold  and  diamonds  and  herds,  what  then?  Why,  leave  them  to 
starve,  as  in  India,  or  struggle  on  in  the  wilderness  as  best  they  can. 


NEW    POEMS. 


317 


These  two  the  centum' s  fruitage  are ; 
And  of  the  two  this  olive  tree 
Stands  first,  aye,  first  since  Galilee. 

Christ's  centum  bends  his  frosted  head ; 

Christ's  calend  calls  a  solemn  roll. 
What  shall  be  writ,  what  shall  be  said, 
Of  Saxon  when  this  blood-writ  scroll 
By  God's  white  light  at  last  is  read? 
What  of  ye  Saxon  nations,  ye 
Who  prate  the  Christ  most  noisily? 

The  eagle's  bent  beak  at  the  throat 

Of  Peace,  where  far  fair  islands  lie : 
The  greedy  lion  sees  a  mote 

In  his  brave,  weaker  brother's  eye, 
And  crouches  low,  to  gorge  and  gloat. 
The  Prince  of  Peace?    Ye  write  his 

name 

In  blood,  then  dare  to  pray!    For 
shame ! 

These  Saxon  lies  on  top  of  lies, 

Ten  millstones  to  the  neck  of  Us, 
Forbid  that  we  should  lift  our  eyes 

Till  we  dare  meet  that  manlier  Russ ; 
In  paeans  for  peace  of  paradise : 
Forbid  that  we,  until  the  day 
We  wash  our  hands,  should  dare  to 
pray. 

AS  IT  IS  WRITTEN. 

The  she-wolf's  ruthless  whelp,  that  tare 
Old  Africa,  is  dead,  and  all- 
Despised  ;  but  Egypt  still  is  fair ; 
Jugurtha  brave ;  and  Hannibal 
Still  hero  of  the  Alps,  and  more 
To-day  than  all  dead  men  of  Rome. 
Archimedes    still   holds   his    measured 

home; 

Grim  Marius  his  ruins  as  of  yore, 
And  heart  still  turns  to  heart,  as  then.  .  .  . 
Live  by  the  sword,  and  by  the  sword 
Ye  surely  die :  thus  saith  the  Lord  — 
And  die  despised  of  men.    Amen ! 


TO  OOM  PAUL  KRUGER. 

ON  HIS  SEVENTY-FIFTH  BIRTHDAY. 

"  But  whether  on  the  scaffold  high 

Or  in  the  battle's  van, 
The  fittest  place  for  man  to  die 
Is  where  he  dies  for  man !  " 

His  shield  a  skin,  his  sword  a  prayer: 
Seventy-five  years  old  to-day  ! 

Yet  mailed  young  hosts  are  marshaling 
there 

To  hound  down  in  his  native  lair  — 
Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Mars !    Ever  was  such  shameless  shame? 

Christ's  calend  calls  the  roll  to-day, 
Yet  Christians  write  the  sweet  Christ's 

name 
In    blood,  and  seek,   with    sword   and 

flame  — 
Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Stand  firm,  grim  shepherd-hero,  stand ! 

The  world's  watch-towers  teem  to-day 
With  men  who  pray  with  lifted  hand 
For  you  and  yours,  old,  simple,  grand  — 

Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

God's  pity  for  the  foolish  few 

Who  guide  great  England's  hosts  to 
day ! 

They  cannot  make  the  false  the  true ; 
They  can  but  turn  true  hearts  to  you  — 

Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Or  king  or  cowboy,  steep  or  plain, 

Or  palace  hall,  where,  what  —  to-day, 
All,  all,  despite  of  place  or  gain, 
Are  with  you,  with  you  heart  and  brain  — 
Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 

Brave  England's  bravest,  best,  her  Fair, 

Who  love  fair  play,  are  yours  to-day. 
And  oh,  the  heart,  the  hope,  the  prayer  — 
The  world  is  with  you  over  there  — 
Oom  Paul  Kruger,  South  Africa. 


318 


NEW    POEMS. 


USLAND*  TO  THE  BOERS. 

And  where  lies  Usland,  Land  of  Us? 

Where  Freedom  lives,  thereUsland  lies ! 
Fling  down  that  map  and  measure  thus 

Or  argent  seas  or  sapphire  skies : 
To  north,  the  North  Pole;  south,  as  far 

As  ever  eagle  cleaved  his  way ; 
To  east,  the  blazing  morning  star, 

And  west !  West  to  the  Judgment  Day ! 

No  borrowed  lion,  rampt  in  gold ; 

No  bleeding  Erin,  plaintive  strains ; 
No  starving  millions,  mute  and  cold ; 

No  plundered  India,  prone  in  chains  ; 
No  peaceful  farmer,  forced  to  fly 

Or  draw  his  plowshare  from  the  sod, 
And  fighting,  one  to  fifty,  die 

For  freedom,  fireside,  and  God. 

Fear  not,  brave,  patient,  free-born  Boers. 

Great  Usland's  heart  is  yours  to-day. 
Aye,  England's  heart  of  hearts  is  yours, 

Whatever  scheming  men  may  say. 
Her  scheming  men  have  mines  to  sell, 

And  we?    Why,  meat  and  corn  and 

wheat. 

But,  Boers,  all  brave  hearts  wish  you 
well; 

For  England's  triumph  means  defeat. 


THAT  USSIAN  OF  USLAND. 

Anent  the  boundary  line  —  "  Lest  we  forget,  lest 
we  forget." 

"  I  am  an  Ussian  true,"  he  said ; 

"  Keep  off  the  grass  there,  Mister  Bull ! 
For  if  you  don't,  I  '11  bang  your  head 

And  bang  your  belly-full. 


"  Now  mark,  my  burly  jingo-man, 
So  prone  to  muss  and  fuss  and  cuss, 

I  am  an  Ussian,  spick  and  span, 
From  out  the  land  of  Us ! " 

The  stout  man  smole  a  frosty  smile  — 
"An     Ussian!     Russian,    Rusk,    or 
Russ?" 

"  No,  no !  an  Ussian,  every  while ; 
My  land  the  land  of  Us." 

"Aw!    Usland,  Outland?  or,  maybe, 

Some  Venezuela  I  'd  forgot. 
Hand  out  your  map  and  let  me  see 

Where  Usland  is,  and  what." 

The  Yankman  leaned  and  spread  his 

map 
And    shewed    the    land    of    Us    and 

shewed, 
Then    eyed    and    eyed    that    paunchy 

chap, 
And  pulled  his  chin  and  chewed. 

"What   do   you   want?"    A  face  grew 
red, 

And  red  chop  whiskers  redder  grew. 
"  I  want  the  earth,"  the  Ussian  said, 

"And  all  Alaska  too. 

* '  My  stars  swim  up  yon  seas  of  blue ; 

No  Shind  am  I,  Boer,  Turk,  or  Russ. 
I  am  an  Ussian  —  Ussian  true; 

My  land  the  land  of  Us. 

"  My  triple  North  Star  lights  me  on, 
My  Southern  Cross  leads  ever  thus ; 

My  sun  scarce  sets  till  burst  of  dawn. 
Hands  off  the  land  of  Us !  " 


*  It  is  a  waste  of  ink  and  energy  to  write  "  United  States  of  America  "  always.  All  our  prop 
erty  is  marked  US.  Then  why  not  Usland  ?  And  why  should  we  always  say  American  ?  The 
Canadian,  the  Mexican,  the  Brazilian,  and  so  on,  are  as  entirely  entitled  to  the  name  "  American" 
as  we.  Why  not  say  Usman,  as  Frenchman,  German,  and  so  on  ? 


NEW    POEMS. 


319 


THE    CALIFORNIA  POPPY. 

The  golden  poppy  is  God's  gold, 

The  gold  that  lifts,  nor  weighs  us  down, 
The  gold  that  knows  no  miser's  hold, 

The  gold  that  banks  not  in  the  town, 
But  singing,  laughing,  freely  spills 
Its  hoard  far  up  the  happy  hills  ; 
Far  up,  far  down,  at  every  turn, — 
What  beggar  has  not  gold  to  burn ! 


THE  DEFENSE  OF  THE  ALAMO. 

Santa  Ana  came  storming,  as  a  storm 

might  come ; 
There  was  rumble  of  cannon ;   there 

was  rattle  of  blade ; 
There  was  cavalry,  infantry,  bugle  and 

drum  — 
Full  seven  proud  thousand  in  pomp 

and  parade, 

The  chivalry,  flower  of  all  Mexico ; 
And  a  gaunt  two  hundred  in  the  Alamo ! 

And  thirty  lay  sick,  and  some  were  shot 

through ; 
For  the  siege  had  been  bitter,   and 

bloody,  and  long. 
* '  Surrender ,  or  die ! "  —  "  Men,  what  will 

yowdo?" 
And  Travis,  great  Travis,  drew  sword, 

quick  and  strong ; 
Drew  a  line  at  his  feet  .  .  .  Will  you 

come?    Will  you  go? 
Jdie  with  my  wounded,  in  the  Alamo." 

Then  Bowie  gasped,  "Guide  me  over 

that  line ! " 
Then  Crockett,  one  hand  to  the  sick, 

one  hand  to  his  gun, 
Crossed  with  him ;  then  never  a  word  or 

a  sign 

Till  all,  sick  or  well,  all,  all,  save  but 
one, 


One    man.      Then    a    woman    stopped 

praying,  and  slow 
Across,  to  die  with  the  heroes  of  the 

Alamo. 

Then  that  one  coward  fled,  in  the  night, 

in  that  night 
When  all  men   silently   prayed   and 

thought 
Of  home ;  of  to-morrow  ;  of  God  and  the 

right, 
Till  dawn ;  then  Travis  sent  his  single 

last  cannon-shot, 
In  answer  to  insolent  Mexico, 
From  the  old  bell-tower  of  the  Alamo. 

Then  came  Santa  Ana;   a  crescent  of 

flame! 
Then  the  red  escalade;  then  the  fight 

hand  to  hand ; 

Such  an  unequal  fight  as  never  had  name 
Since  the  Persian  hordes  butchered 

that  doomed  Spartan  band. 
All  day — all  day  and  all  night,  and  the 

morning?  so  slow, 
Through  the  battle  smoke  mantling  the 

Alamo. 

Then  silence !    Such  silence !    Two  thou 
sand  lay  dead 

In  a  crescent  outside!    And  within? 
Not  a  breath 

Save  the  gasp  of  a  woman,  with  gory, 

gashed  head, 

All  alone,  with  her  dead  there,  waiting 
for  death ; 

And  she  but  a  nurse.    Yet  when  shall 
we  know 

Another  like  this  of  the  Alamo? 

Shout  "  Victory,  victory,  victory  ho !  " 
I  say,  't  is  not  always  with  the  hosts 
that  win : 

I  say  that  the  victory,  high  or  low, 
Is  given  the  hero  who  grapples  with  sin, 

Or  legion  or  single ;  just  asking  to  know 

When  duty  fronts  death  in  his  Alamo. 


320 


NEW   POEMS. 


CALIFORNIANS. 

"  There  were  giants  in  the  earth  in  those  days, 
.  .  .  mighty  men,  .  .  .  men  of  renown." 

Not  Roberts,  he  of  Candahar, 

Not  Cronje  with  his  scar-seamed  men, 

Not  any  man  of  noisy  war, 

Nor  boastful  man  with  blood-dipt  pen :  — 

No,  no,  the  hero  of  the  strife 

Is  he  who  deals  not  death,  but  life :  — 

I  count  this  man  the  coming  man, 

The  rounding  glory  of  God's  plan. 

The  heroes  of  the  firing  line? 
They  housed  with  God  upon  the  height, 
Companioned  with  the  peak,  the  pine ; 
They  read  His  open  Book  by  night ; 
They  drank  His  star-distilled  perfume, 
Walled  round  by  room  and  room  and 

room; 

By  day  they  faced  the  trackless  West 
And  chased  the  yellow  sun  to  rest. 

Such  sad,  mad  marches  to  the  sea ! 
Such  silent  sacrifice,  such  trust ! 
Three  thousand  miles  of  misery, 
Three  thousand  miles  of  heroes'  dust ! 
But  then  such  stout  thews  of  the  few 
Who  knew  the  Promised  Land,  who  knew 
The  cleansing  fire,  and  then  laid  hold 
To  hammer  out  God's  house  of  gold ! 

Hear,  hear,  their  thousand  cannon  roar 
Against     the     knock-kneed     mountain 
gnome, 


Where  never  man  set  foot  before, 
Where  monsters  only  had  made  home ! 
Hear,  hear,  the  treasure-house  is  free, 
A  stream  of  gold  flows  to  the  sea, 
And  where  a  foolish  king  would  rear 
A  castle,  lo,  a  college  here ! 

Their  cities  zone  the  sundown  seas, 
Their  white  tents  top  the  mountain  crest. 
The  coward?  He  trenched  not  with  these. 
The  weakling?   He  is  laid  to  rest. 
Each  man  's  a  man,  such  dauntless  man 
As  God  wrought  not  since  time  began. 
His  sons  are  as  the  sons  of  Saul, 
With  David's  daring,  soul  of  Paul. 

Each  man  a  hero,  lion  each ! 

Behold  what  length  of  limb,  what  length 

Of  life,  of  love,  what  daring  reach 

To      deep-hived      honeycomb!       what 

strength ! 

Clean  out-door  Adams,  virile,  clean 
As  nature  in  her  vernal  green ; 
He  hears,  hears  as  a  prophet  hears 
The  morning  music  of  the  spheres. 

Behold  how  fair,  how  wondrous  fair, 
His  daughter  of  the  yellow  sun ! 
Her  sunlit  length  and  strength  of  hair, 
Seems  as  if  sun  and  hair  were  one ! 
Behold  where,  silent,  unaware, 
As  some  strange  being  just  begun, 
She  stands  forth  tall  and  fair,  so  fair, 
And  combs  her  mighty  Titian  hair ! 


NOTES.  321 


NOTES. 

And  here  at  the  end  be  not  impatient  that  you  have  found  much  of  self  in  these  foot-notes 
from  title-leaf  to  colophon,  nor  count  it  at  all  selfish.  I  had  my  lessons  to  teach  to  those  whose  de 
sire  to  learn  is  above  cheap  curiosity,  and  with  such  souls  there  can  be  no  sacrifice  of  true  dignity, 
for  here  familiarity  is  not  vulgarity.  The  best  guide-book  to  me,  through  a  strange  land,  is  the  story 
of  another's  journey  there.  Let  me  say  to  the  pilgrims  of  song,  in  conclusion,  Be  not  afraid.  Sing 
from  the  heart,  to  the  heart.  Sing  as  the  birds  sing.  Let  the  alleged  lion  roar.  Let  the  dog  bark. 
These  beasts  are  of  the  earth.  The  birds  are  of  the  air.  The  dog  must  bay  the  moon;  and  the 
brighter  the  moon,  the  louder  the  dog.  .  .  . 

You  want  to  see  San  Francisco  ?  Well,  you  must  come  to  Oakland  to  see  San  Francisco.  And 
do  you  want  to  see  Oakland  and  San  Francisco,  and  the  bay  of  all  bays  on  the  globe,  and  the  Golden 
Gate,  at  a  glance,  and  all  together  ?  Then  you  must  go  two  miles  to  the  northeast  and  one  mile 
perpendicular.  In  short,  you  must  come  to  The  Hights,  to  the  camp  where  Fremont  tented  half  a 
century  ago,  and  from  which  spot  he  named  the  now  famous  Golden  Gate,  years  before  gold  was 
found. 

Here  at  dawn  we  are  above  the  clouds!  What  would  the  world  do  without  clouds ?  And  at  no 
two  hours  of  the  day,  no  two  minutes,  indeed,  are  the  views  along  here  alike.  You  see  the  higher 
streets  of  San  Francisco  above  the  rolling,  surging  sea-mist;  the  great  cross  of  the  Lone  Mountain 
Cemetery  lifting  in  grand  and  solemn  loneliness  above  all  things,  and  looking  strangely  tall  and 
vast.  The  clouds  roll  above  Oakland,  lift,  rift  a  little,  and  church  spires  are  pointing  up  and 
through  the  sea  of  snow  that  undulates,  lifts,  pulses,  at  your  feet.  The  whole  bay  is  a  mobile  floor 
of  silver.  Not  a  suggestion  of  the  sea!  Tamalpais,  with  its  winding  track  and  trains  above  the 
clouds  that  conceal  San  Pablo  Bay,  a  white  lighthouse  on  the  headlands  below,  Black  Point,  Sutro 
Heights,  Fort  Alcatraz,  the  tips  and  topmasts  of  sail,  that  is  all,  — 

Where  phantom  ships  unchallenged  pass 
The  gloomy  guns  of  Alcatraz. 

Twelve  o'clock,  and  not  a  cloud  — not  a  cloud  above  or  about  the  peaceful  fair  visage  of  beauti 
ful  Alameda  below  you.  And  yet  do  not  despise  the  clouds,  God's  garments'  hem.  Truly,  all  that 
is  good  or  great  is  veiled,  garmented  in  mist,  clouds,  mystery.  The  priest  has  his  sacred  place; 
the  house  of  God  has  its  holy  of  holies.  All  things  in  nature  have  their  mantled  mysteries.  The 
little  seeds  take  life  in  the  dark  mold;  all  life  begins  in  secret,  silence,  majestic  mystery,  the 
large  solemnity  of  night. 

At  morning,  noon,  or  night,  especially  night,  when  the  heavens  and  the  earth  are  on  fire  — 
for  you  cannot  tell  where  the  lights  leave  off  and  the  stars  begin  — the  scene  is  most  gor 
geously  magnificent. 

Deep  below  us  lies  the  valley, 

Steep  below  us  lies  the  town, 
Where  great  sea-ships  ride  and  rally, 

And  the  world  walks  up  and  down. 

Oh,  the  sea  of  lights  far-streaming, 

When  the  thousand  flags  are  furled, 
And  the  gleaming  bay  lies  dreaming 

As  it  duplicates  the  world ! 


Pardon  me  if  I  answer  letters  in  this  public  way.    But  so  much  has  been  said  about  my 
"  School  of  Poetry"  here,  that  I  cannot  very  well  end  this  work  without  a  note  of  warning,  advice, 

explanation. 


322  NOTES. 


First,  then,  the  sweetest  flowers  grow  closest  to  the  ground.  There  is  no  art  without  heart. 
The  art  of  all  art  is  really  to  know  nature  —  yourself.  Better  to  know,  of  your  own  knowledge,  the 
color,  the  perfume,  the  nature,  the  twining,  of  a  single  little  creeping  vine  in  the  canon,  than  to 
know  all  the  rocky  mountains  through  a  book.  Man  reads  too  much  and  reasons  too  little.  Great 
artists  are  not  great  readers,  but  great  observers.  They  see  with  the  heart.  The  world  seems  to 
think  the  artist  should  be  constantly  busy  with  book,  brush,  or  pen.  No,  his  heart,  like  a  field, 
must  lie  fallow  long  to  bring  forth  greatly.  And  do  you  know  there  are  poets,  great  poets,  perhaps 
the  very  greatest,  who  never  wrote  or  read  a  line,  and  great  painters  who  never  knew  a  brush. 
A  certain  man  comes  here  now  and  then  who  has  a  picture-gallery  in  the  canon,  which  he  says  is 
worth  a  million.  Few,  if  any,  of  us  have  the  capacity  to  see  the  pictures  of  this  millionaire. 

It  is  high  time  that  the  art  world  and  the  lesser  half  of  the  world  should  be  on  terms  of  better 
understanding.  We  of  the  art  world  are  too  apt  to  think  that  the  rest  of  the  world  is  heartless. 
The  rest  of  the  world  is  too  apt  to  think  that  the  art  world  is  headless.  The  truth  is,  as  said  before, 
a  man  in  trade  may  be  at  heart  a  great  artist;  while  a  great  artist  could  in  many  cases  make  money, 
as  well  as  any  other  man ;  only  he  might  be  too  ready  to  give  it  away  to  some  less  fortunate  than 
himself. 

Another  thing  let  us  note  by  way  of  finale.  Poets,  painters,  composers,  fashioners  of  beautiful 
forms,  are  the  gentlest  and  purest  and  most  temperate  of  all  human  beings.  Take  the  poets,  espe 
cially  those  of  America.  Turn  on  the  high  white  light  that  beats  upon  the  throne.  You  will  not 
find  a  fairer  galaxy  of  names  in  all  history.  Even  poor  Poe,  it  is  now  seen,  was  the  victim  of  envy 
and  malice,  —  the  forty  failures  assaulting  the  one  success.  You  also  find  silly,  would-be  musicians 
defaming  their  betters;  and  so  on  all  along  the  line. 

It  is  best  that  we  should  get  at  the  truth.  A  truly  great  poet  can  be  great  in  almost  anything, 
as  witness  King  David,  Michael  Angelo,  Milton,  and  so  on. 

We  are  a  sort  of  hillside  Bohemia  up  here,  only  we  have  no  tape;  not  even  a  tow-string,  or 
"  strings  "  of  any  sort,  on  any  man  or  any  woman.  We  don't  want  to  know  what  any  one  has  been 
or  aspires  to  be,  nor  are  we  curious  to  know  what  he  is.  These  are  matters  of  his  own  account 
with  his  Maker.  We  are  never  numerous;  we  are  never  very  good,  never  very  bad.  We  have  some 
rules,  or  rather  some  ideas,  that  we  have  formulated,  melted  together,  and  rounded  down,  as  the 
years  rolled  by,  but  we  do  not  intrude  them  on  anybody,  nor  are  you  to  believe  that  we  all  live 
up  to  the  best  of  them ;  at  least,  I  know  one  who  does  not.  He  sees  that  man  is  still  heaving  a 
great  stone  up  hill  by  day  to  find  it  rolling  back  on  him  at  night.  Yet  he  hopes  and  believes  that 
the  human  race  grows  better  and  better,  while  the  centuries  surge  past. 

And  now, 'What  is  taught  here,  and  how,  and  when?  Frankly  and  truly,  nothing,  or  almost 
nothing,  is  taught,  and  hardly  any  time  is  given  to  the  students.  It  is  all  in  the  atmosphere  or 
sense  of  peace.  There  simply  are  three  or  four  tenets  or  principles  of  life  insisted  upon.  The  first 
of  these  is  that  man  is  good.  This  admits  of  no  debate.  Sit  down  a  little  time  as  you  stumble 
headlong  in  the  dust  up  and  down  the  steeps  of  life,  —  steeps  of  your  own  making  or  imagining,  as 
a  rule,  —  and  wait  for  the  stars,  or  the  moon,  or  the  morning.  You  will  then  see  that  all  the  world 
is  beautiful,  beautiful,  —  magnificently  beautiful.  And  meantime  get  a  little  acquainted  with 
your  own  soul.  You  will  find  that  you  are  better,  a  great  deal  better,  than  you  believed  as  you 
stumbled  so  hurriedly  and  so  blindly  along  in  the  dust,  looking  all  the  time  down  in  the  dirt  for 
money.  You  will  also  find  that  those  about  you  are  better,  vastly  better,  than  you  believed. 

No  debating  of  any  sort  is  allowed.  See  what  a  saving  of  time !  If  I  could  divert  the  time  that 
is  wasted  in  idle  dispute  for  ten  years  into  a  right  direction,  I  could  make  an  Eden  in  any  country. 
I  simply  say  to  my  students,  "There  is  not  a  man  or  woman  with  the  breath  of  God  in  his  or  her 
nostrils,  who  is  not  good  or  trying  to  be  good  according  to  the  strength  and  light.  It  is  your  privi 
lege  and  duty,  with  your  better  culture  and  opportunities,  to  give  light  and  light  continually,  and 
not  so  much  by  word  as  by  deed;  not  by  the  letter  which  killeth,  but  by  the  spirit  which  maketh 
alive." 

The  truth  is,  there  is  a  great  deal  more  good  in  the  world  than  it  has  credit  for.  I  doubt  if 
there  is  a  home,  never  so  poor,  but  has  some  little  unseen  altar  on  which  is  daily,  almost  hourly, 
laid  some  little  sweet  sacrifice,  some  little  touch  of  pity  and  tenderness  for  the  poor  pale  mother, 
the  weary,  worn  father,  the  little  sick  baby.  It  is  our  place  to  give  them  more  and  more  love  to 
lay  on  the  unseen  altar,  more  light,  more  light;  so  that  they  may  have  more  heart,  hope,  strength. 

The  second  lesson  after  the  love  of  man  is  the  love  of  nature.  As  there  is  no  entirely  bad  man 
in  his  right  mind  on  earth,  so  is  there  no  entirely  ugly  thing  in  nature.  I  was  told  an  Arab  tra- 


NOTES.  323 


dition  in  Jerusalem,  that  Jesus,  passing  down  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat  with  his  disciples,  came 
upon  the  remains  of  a  dog.  They  gathered  their  garments,  and  with  lifted  faces  hurried  by.  But 
Jesus,  pausing  a  moment,  and  reaching  his  face  a  little,  said  softly,  "  What  beautiful  teeth !  " 

The  third  and  undebated  lesson  after  the  goodness  of  man  and  the  beauty  of  the  world  is  the 
immortality  of  man.  Yes,  there  may  be  those  who  do  not  live  again.  You  may  sow  your  field  as 
carefully  as  you  can,  yet  there  are  many  worthless  grains  that  will  not  come  up,  but  will  rot  and 
resolve  again  into  earth.  And  may  it  not  be  that  this  fearful  disease  of  unbelief  is  a  sort  of 
crucial  test?  May  it  not  be,  that  if  you  be  so  weak  as  to  say  you  shall  be  blown  out  as  a  candle  and 
so  drop  into  everlasting  darkness,  that  it  shall  be  so? 

We  begin  the  next  life  where  we  leave  off  in  this.  I  see  this  in  the  little  seeds  that  sift  down 
from  the  trees,  and  lie  under  the  shroud  of  snow  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  the  winter  through, 
waiting  the  roaring  March  winds  to  trumpet  through  the  pines  and  proclaim  the  resurrection 
I  read  it  in  every  blade  of  grass  that  carpets  God's  footstool.  Every  spear  is  a  spear  to  battle  for 
this  truth.  Every  blade  of  grass  is  a  bent  saber  waving  us  forward  with  living  evidence  of  im 
mortality,  for  it  has  seen  the  resurrection. 

A  fourth  and  very  practical  lesson  is  on  economy.  Nature  wastes  nothing,  nothing;  least  of 
all  does  nature  waste  time.  Yet  nature  is  never  in  haste,  and  this  practical  lesson  broadens  and 
broadens  as  we  go  forward.  Ah  me,  the  waste  that  is  in  this  world  at  the  hands  of  man  I  Looking 
away  down  yonder,  I  can  count  more  than  forty  church  spires.  More  than  forty  great  big 
churches,  and  not  one  single  place,  except  a  library  or  two  and  a  station  or  two,  where  a  stranger 
can  wash  his  hands,  or  observe  the  simplest  decencies  of  life,  without  going  into  some  saloon. 
Forty  great  empty  churches,  with  soft  cushions,  some  of  them,  yet  not  one  place,  outside  of  the 
jail,  where  a  stranger  without  money  can  lay  his  head. 

The  other  day,  one  of  my  women  students  dropped  quite  a  handful  of  beans  where  she  was 
washing  them  at  a  fountain.  When  I  saw  those  beans  there  in  the  grass  and  mud,  I  got  down 
and  picked  most  of  them  up  and  took  them  to  her.  Nothing  was  said.  After  a  time,  chancing  to 
look  that  way,  I  saw  she  was  down  on  her  hands  and  knees  hunting  for  beans  where  I  had  left  off. 
I  am  sure  she  will  never  waste  anything  any  more. 

You  say  this  is  not  poetry;  that  I  teach  only  plain  common  sense?  I  assure  you  that  the  only 
true  poetry  is  plain  common  sense.  The  only  true  poetry  is  truth:  the  RIGHT:  HEART. 

Truth  is,  truth  was,  truth  always  will  be.  No  poet  can  create  or  destroy  one  particle  of  truth, 
any  more  than  he  can  create  or  destroy  a  particle  of  gold.  He  can  only  give  it  a  new  form,  gar 
ment  it  with  splendor,  and  set  it  in  a  new  light.  Were  I  to  try  to  define  poetry,  I  should  say 
that  poetry  is  the  divinely  beautiful  woman  Truth,  gorgeously  yet  modestly  and  most  perfectly 
gowned. 

As  for  methods  or  detail  of  teaching  the  divine  art  of  song,  I  have  none.    There  can  be  none. 

Some  general  rules,  of  course,  prevail.  The  first  is  some  concession  to  the  fact  that  the  world 
is  going  at  a  swifter  pace  than  of  old.  Even  Homer  could  not  find  either  publisher  or  reader  to 
day.  Therefore,  cut,  cut,  cut.  Then  work  it  over,  and  cut  again.  Then,  in  most  casos,  — burn. 
Don't  be  afraid  to  rub  out  the  sum.  You  are  only  at  school.  And  above  all,  don't  write  for 
either  fame  or  money.  Write  for  your  own  soul,  the  good,  the  beautiful.  First,  the  kingdom  of 
Heaven,  then  all  the  rest. 

Nor  shall  the  true  artist  fear  hunger.  No  one  who  is  willing  to  work  can  go  hungry,  and  no 
one  who  is  not  willing  to  work,  and  live  simply  and  apart  from  the  tumult  of  trade,  should  aspire 
to  be  a  poet,  painter,  composer,  or  fashioner  of  beautiful  forms.  For  on  all  triumph  in  this  life  is 
laid  a  mighty  tribute.  You  must  render  unto  Csesar  the  things  that  are  Caesar's.  Take  counsel  of 
nature.  Look  at  the  trees  casting  down  their  golden  leaves  generously  at  the  end  of  the  year's 
fruitage,  fearing  nothing.  They  lift  their  arms  in  attitude  of  prayer,  certain  that  they  shall  be 
garmented  again,  and  glorified,  and  made  even  more  beautiful  than  before,  all  in  due  season. 

"  Look  at  the  rose,  —  the  generous  rose, 
That  tears  the  silken  tassel  of  her  purse, 
And  all  her  perfume  o'er  the  garden  throws." 

In  brief,  to  be  a  poet,  artist  of  any  sort,  you  must  not  only  feel  your  art,  but  live  your  art; 
humbly,  patiently,  continually  live  it.  And  do  not  disdain  others  in  other  walks  of  life.  I  re 
peat,  the  greatest  poets  never  penned  a  line.  Let  us  concede  the  same  in  other  walks  of  art,  for 
it  is  true. 


324  NOTES. 


In  the  line  of  economy,  I  urge  that  artists,  if  not  all  men,  should  rest  and  rise  with  the  birds. 
There  is  a  deal  of  nonsense  about  "  midnight  oil,"  and  little  or  no  good.  God  made  the  day  for 
man;  but  the  night  for  beasts;  and  beasts  have  rights. 

In  the  same  line,  it  is  foolishness  to  fight  back.  See  what  a  saving  of  time,  temper,  energy,  by 
refusing  to  answer  the  low  and  envious  who  make  a  target  of  your  fame.  Equip  yourself  as  best 
you  can,  and  then  descend  into  the  arena  to  fight,  and  to  fight  forward,  not  back.  The  man  who 
stops  and  faces  about  to  hit  back  is  a  weak  man,  and  ready  to  run.  No  truly  great  man  will  ever 
hit  back. 

I  hold,  with  Socrates,  that  a  man's  first  duty  is  to  the  state,  and  that  however  delightful  it 
might  be  to  hit  back,  and  then  house  in  Arcadia  and  forget  all  care,  we  are  all  born  to  responsi 
bilities,  and  must  each  account  for  the  talent  given. 

And  now,  with  this  final  appeal  to  the  young  sentinels  on  the  watch-towers  of  the  world,  I  con 
clude  with  this  one  first,  last,  and  only  comment:  Read,  follow,  believe,  The  Book;  because,  for 
stateliness  of  style,  simplicity  of  diction,  directness  of  thought,  and  majesty  of  utterance,  it  is 
unmatched  in  all  the  array  of  books,  old  or  new,  to  be  found  on  the  shelves  of  the  British  Mu 
seum. 

Let  the  young  author,  whom  I  hope  to  help,  take  the  very  first  line  in  this  neglected  work, 
take  the  very  first  words,  "  In  the  beginning."  Lay  down  your  book  now.  Pause  right  here  and 
contemplate,  comprehend  if  you  can,  even  though  it  be  ever  so  little,  the  awful  force  and  direct 
ness  and  simplicity  of  this.  "In  the  beginning."  Where?  When?  What?  Above  all,  when? 
How  fearfully  and  incomprehensibly  far  away ! 

But  let  us  go  on  with  the  line:  "  In  the  beginning  God  —  "  Pause  here  long,  my  young  au 
thor.  Now  add  the  next  words,  and  read:  "In  the  beginning  God  created  the  heaven  and  the 
earth  —  "  Now  take  the  next:  "And  the  earth  was  without  form,  and  void;  and  darkness  was 
upon  the  face  of  the  deep.  And  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters.  And  God 
said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light." 

How  many  pages,  books,  would  a  modern  author  devote  to  telling  this  ? 

Mark  you,  I  am  offering  this  in  quite  a  worldly  way.  Although  it  is  the  boast  of  too  many  of 
•us  that  these  words  are  entirely  the  work  of  a  man,  as  for  myself,  I  can  only  say,  "  If  so,  oh  for 
another  such  man !  " 

I  was  asked  to  address  the  Jews  in  their  synagogue  here  recently  on  the  subject  of  poetry.  I 
searched  for  poetry  in  many  pages;  waded  through  modern  books,  and  kept  going  back,  back, 
back,  till  the  very  fountain-head  was  reached.  And  here,  and  here  only,  did  I  find  poetry  in  all 
its  largeness  and  splendor  of  thought  and  utterance.  Take  the  picture  of  Jacob  blessing  his  sons. 
•'And  when  Jacob  had  made  an  end  of  commanding  his  sons,  he  gathered  up  his  feet  into  the 
bed,  and  yielded  up  the  ghost." 

To  a  man  who  has  seen  little  of  life,  less  of  death,  this  last  quotation  may  mean  nothing. 
But  I  have  stood  by  the  deathbed  of  too  many  of  the  old  gold-hunters  to  miss  the  realistic  truth 
and  simplicity  of  this  sentence.  Ah!  their  weary,  weary  feet.  They  had  wandered  as  Jacob 
wandered.  Their  feet  were  weary  as  his  feet  were  weary.  And  I  know,  as  surely  as  I  know  I  live, 
that  he  died  just  as  it  is  written  in  this  grand  and  neglected  record:  "  he  gathered  up  his  feet 
into  the  bed,  and  yielded  up  the  ghost." 

Give  the  simple,  naked  truth.  Leave  imaginings  to  the  reader,  for  the  reader  is  rarely  the 
fool  we  conceive  him  to  be.  The  fact  is,  the  world  is  so  flooded  with  our  work,  that  it  lias  not 
nearly  time  to  get  through  with  it,  and  right  soon  we  must  return  to  simplicity,  if  we  hope  to  be 
read. 

And  not  only  simplicity  of  motive,  but  majesty  of  utterance  must  be  ours.  To  find  this  large 
ness,  brevity,  and  majesty  in  its  most  real  and  perfect  form,  we  must  go  back  to  the  very  heart  of 
this  great,  neglected  book.  You  will  hardly  find  this  perfect  combination  of  great  qualities  in 
poetry  this  side  of  the  book  of  Job. 

"  Where  is  the  way  where  light  dwelleth? 

"  And  as  for  darkness,  where  is  the  place  thereof?  .  .  . 

"  Hast  thou  entered  into  the  treasures  of  the  snow?  or  hast  thou  seen  the  treasures  of  the 
hail?  .  .  . 

"  Hath  the  rain  a  father?  or  who  hath  begotten  the  drops  of  dew?  .  .  . 

"  The  hoary  frost  of  heaven,  who  hath  gendered  it  ?  " 

These  lines,  with  their  eternal  inquiry,  their  knowledge  of  nature,  their  faith  in  a  being  above 


NOTES.  325 


man,  glorious  and  stately  figures,  are  taken  at  random  from  a  half-page  of  the  oldest  written  poem 
extant — so  old  that  it  is  new.  It  was  written  when  man  was  nearer  to  God  than  now.  It  was 
written  when  the  page  of  nature  was  new;  when  the  whole  world  was  poetry. 

"  Where  is  the  way  where  light  dwelleth?  "  The  golden  doors  of  dawn,  where  are  they?  And 
as  for  darkness,  with  all  its  majesty,  its  mystery,  its  large  solemnity,  its  somber  and  silent  domin 
ion  of  the  universal  world,  where  is  the  place  of  it? 

"  Hath  the  rain  a  father?    And  the  hoary  frost  of  heaven,  who  hath  gendered  it  ?  " 

These  awful  elements  of  nature  are  the  same  as  when  they  first  fell  from  the  finger  of  God. 
The  great,  white,  beautiful,  high-born  rain  is  still  the  same  as  when  the  majestic  poet  of  old  sat 
and  sang  so  close  to  Nature,  that  he  heard  the  beating  of  her  heart.  The  fierce  and  fervid  way  of 
the  lightning  up  the  walls  of  heaven,  the  awful  autograph  of  God,  written  audibly  on  the  porch 
of  His  eternal  house,  is  the  same  as  of  old.  All,  all  are  precisely  the  same ;  but  our  poets  see  these 
things  no  more  now.  Nature,  God,  has  not  forgotten  us,  but  our  poets  have  forgotten  Nature, 
God! 

How  long  does  it  take  to  grow  a  rose  tree  in  a  garden?  How  long  are  we  willing  to  sit  by  and 
watch  the  growth  of  an  olive  grove?  One,  two,  five,  ten  years?  And  yet  how  long  is  it  sine^  you 
planted  in  your  soul,  in  the  richest  center  of  your  heart,  the  love  of  nature,  the  love  of  beauty  — 
beauty  of  form;  beauty  of  light;  beauty  of  color;  beauty  of  life? 

"  And  the  Lord  God  planted  a  garden  eastward  in  Eden.  .  .  .  And  out  of  the  ground  made  the 
Lord  God  to  grow  every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the  sight  and  good  for  food." 

Please  observe  that  "every  tree  that  was  pleasant  to  the  sight"  came  first.  That  which  was 
"good  for  food  "  came  last.  The  soul  was  to  be  fed  first,  here  in  this  garden  which  the  Lord  God 
planted  eastward  in  Eden;  the  body,  last.  Ah!  far,  very  far,  have  we  wandered  away,  like  lost 
children,  from  the  place  where  "the  Lord  God  planted  every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the  sight"; 
and  no  prophets  sit  by  the  wayside,  as  of  old,  and  cry  aloud  to  the  people,  "  Where  is  the  way 
where  light  dwelleth?  " 

Were  I  to  undertake  to  write  down  the  alphabet  — the  very  first  lesson  in  the  appreciation— of 
poetry,  I  should  begin  with  the  first  lesson  of  God,  the  very  first:  "And  God  said,  Let  there  be 
light,  and  there  was  light."  The  next  lesson,  the  next  letter  of  the  alphabet,  would  be  given  in 
the  garden.  I  would  plant  a  tree  "  pleasant  to  the  sight."  I  would  mark  the  miracle  of  its  develop 
ment,  its  purity,  its  perfume,  its  perfect  form  and  continual  comeliness,  its  steady  and  upright  stand 
against  storms  that  sometimes  seem  almost  to  uproot  it,  and  yet  all  for  its  own  good;  I  would 
catch  the  airy  colors  of  that  tree,  mark  all  its  moods,  the  light  and  shade;  would  read  its 
leaves  through  and  through  each  day;  I  would  listen  to  the  song  of  the  wind  in  its  branches,  for 
this  is  poetry — God's  poetry. 

But  who  of  us  cares  now  for  "  the  way  where  light  dwelleth?  "  Who  cares  now  for  the  poetry 
written  on  the  lisping  leaves  of  a  tree?  Who  cares  now  for  "every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the 
sight"?  Man  has  built  for  himself  huge  walls  to  shut  out  the  light.  The  flowers  that  blossom 
continually  along  the  pages  of  the  prophets  of  old  he  never  sees  any  more.  The  parables  of  that 
divinely  beautiful  young  Jew,  Christ,  in  the  language  of  flowers  all  over  the  land,  are  to  him  as  a 
book  that  is  sealed.  Yet  the  world  keeps  continually  crying  out,  "  Where  are  the  prophets? 
Where  are  the  poets?  "  I  answer,  Can  a  prophet  prophesy  without  faith? 

I  say  you  might  as  well  send  a  man  out  in  the  darkness  to  gather  flowers  on  yon  sunny  hillside 
as  to  ask  poetry  of  an  age  when  faith  and  hope  and  charity  are  rudely  thrust  aside  by  the  hard, 
mailed  hand  of  doubt.  Yea,  the  blind  man  may  gather  some  few  flowers  as  the  night  goes  by,  but 
he  will  gather  weeds  and  thistles  and  poisonous  plants  as  well.  We  have  gathered  some  few  sweet 
flowers  of  song  by  the  long,  long  road  that  reaches  back  to  humble  Bethlehem,  but  we  have 
gathered  weeds;  much  that  is  worse  than  weeds. 

On  the  glowing  olive-set  hills  of  Syria,  on  the  burning  sands  of  Arabia,  by  the  blazing  shores  of 
the  Red  Sea,  where  Moses  saw  the  face  of  God  in  the  burning  bush,  where  men  believed,  and  when 
men  believed,  when  they  had  faith  in  God  and  hope  in  the  Promised  Land,  there  and  then  was 
poetry  conceived.  The  forty  years  in  the  wilderness,  the  full  fervor  of  heat  and  light  in  the  open 
fields,  the  communion,  heart  to  heart,  with  nature  —  there,  in  the  wilderness  and  by  the  wayside, 
was  planted  the  germ  of  songs  that  have  outlived  the  thousand  thousand  books  written  within 
the  walls  of  luxurious  Europe. 

Do  you  recall  the  time  in  our  history  when  the  sermon  and  the  song  were  heard  from  Maine 
to  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi?  when  the  Peter  Cartwrightsand  the  Lorenzo  Dows  blazed  the  way 


326  NOTES. 


through  the  wilderness,  for  civilization  to  follow?  Ah!  there  was  faith  then;  there  was  hope 
then.  By  the  light  of  their  cabin  fires  these  simple  Methodists  prayed  and  sang  and  believed. 
They,  and  they  alone,  after  the  praying  Puritans,  set  deep  in  the  soil  of  freedom  the  foundation- 
stones  of  this  nation.  By  the  light  of  their  cabin  fires  they  married  their  daughters  in  Faith ;  by 
the  light  of  their  cabin  fires  they  buried  their  dead  in  Hope.  They,  in  that  grand  pilgrimage 
pointing  to  this  westmost  shore,  planted  seed  that  should  have  flowered  long  ere  this  by  this 
great  sea.  But  what  followed?  What  followed  over  the  graves  of  those  grand  and  simple-minded 
old  Methodists— those  prophets  in  buckskin?  What  followed  but  the  golden  calf,  with  his  cloven 
foot?  The  seed  they  planted  was  trampled  into  dust,  so  that  to-day  we  not  only  have  no  poet,  but 
we  have  not  even  the  hope  of  a  poet.  For  we  have  no  faith;  we  have  no  charity;  we  have  little 
or  no  real  religion  at  all. 

Not  long  ago,  a  rich  San  Francisco  preacher  came  to  see  me  where  I  was  at  work  among  my 
olive  trees. 

"  Pretty  rough  piece  of  ground  you  have  here." 

"  Yes,  sir;  rough  underfoot,  but  as  smooth  overhead  as  any  man's  land." 

"  Ahem  1    Will  olives  pay  here?  " 

This  was  his  first  and  last  concern.  The  clink  of  the  golden  chain  which  bound  that  man's 
neck  to  the  golden  calf  with  the  cloven  foot  was  heard  to  rattle  on  my  stony  steeps  as  he  spoke. 
Will  olives  pay  here? 

Pay?  Pay?  In  every  breath  of  the  sweet  sea-wind  that  lifts  their  silvery  leaves  in  the  sun  I 
am  paid;  paid  in  imperishable  silver  every  day.  I  see  in  their  every  leaf  the  olive  branch  of  the 
dove  of  old.  The  olive  branch  and  the  breast  of  the  dove  are  of  the  same  subdued  silver  hue  to 
day  as  in  the  days  of  Noah  — as  if  the  olive  branch  and  the  dove  had  in  some  sort  kept  companion 
ship  ever  since  the  days  of  the  deluge. 

If  there  is  a  poem,  written  or  unwritten,  a  song,  sung  or  unsung,  sweeter  or  more  plaintive 
than  that  of  the  dove  singuig  in  the  silver-gray  olive  tree  on  the  mountain  steeps,  singing  in  that 
sad,  far-off  way,  as  if  the  waste  of  waters  still  encompassed  her,  and  ' '  she  found  no  rest  for  the  sole 
of  her  foot,"— if  there  is  anything  at  all  that  is  higher  or  holier  with  messages  to  man,  I  have  not 
found  it. 

And  yet,  still  must  we  ask,  When  will  our  great  interpreter  come?  When  will  the  true  prophet, 
priest,  poet,  preacher  come  to  us?  For  we  are  continually  reminded  that  it  is  by  the  voice  of  the 
poet  only  that  a  nation  is  allowed  to  survive.  Jerusalem  has  been  permitted  to  come  down  to  us 
forever  glorified;  she  cherished  the  poets.  But  where  is  Babylon,  who  cast  the  prophets  into  the 
lions'  den?  Nineveh  was  "  an  exceeding  great  city  of  three  days'  journey."  But  Nineveh  would 
not  hear;  and  where  is  Nineveh  now?  Yet  Jerusalem,  the  city  of  poetry  and  song,  survives.  And 
this  is  simply  because  she  had  Faith  and  Hope ;  and  so  had  her  poets,  and  she  did  not  despise 
them ;  and  her  poets  made  her  immortal.  And  so  of  Athens. 

True  or  false,  the  Greeks  had  gods,  even  the  Unknown  God  of  which  Paul  spoke ;  and  they 
BELIEVED.  They  had  Faith  and  Hope.  And  so  their  poets  sang,  sang  in  marble.  They  sang  in 
music,  sang  in  the  eternal  melody  of  beauty ;  and  their  country  lives  forever. 

No,  the  poet  cannot  prove  to  you  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  There  are  things  that  rise  above 
the  ordinary  rules  of  evidence,  and  this  is  one  of  them.  He  cannot  prove  to  you,  under  the  strict 
rules  of  legal  evidence,  even  that  the  sun  will  rise  to-morrow.  But  it  will  surely  rise.  And  just 
as  surely  shall  the  soul  of  man  be  saved;  if  it  be  worth  saving,  make  your  soul  worth  saving. 
That  is  all. 

Let  me  invoke  your  adoration  of  the  light— God's  first-born.  Love  the  light,  and  every  beauti 
ful  blade  of  grass,  and  all  the  myriad  beauties  that  only  light  can  bring.  By  this  light  read  con 
tinually  the  pages  of  God's  poetry;  breathe  the  perfume,  hear  the  melodies,  love  all  the  glorious 
things  by  the  path  of  God,  through  this  beautiful,  beautiful  world,  where,  on  every  side,  the 
heavens  and  the  earth  seem  opening  wide,  as  a  book  that  is  to  be  read.  Then  will  come  the  new 
poet,  the  true  prophet,  toiling,  maybe,  in  the  fields,  toiling  certainly  somewhere,  as  God  toils 
continually,  as  Christ,  the  carpenter,  toiled.  He  will  come,  and  he  will  stay  where  he  can  hear 
the  heart-beats  of  nature,  and  the  birds  can  take  him  into  their  confidence.  He  will  not  come 
from  marble  halls  or  massive  walls,  but  he  will  come  humbly,  as  divine  in  his  humility  as  the 
men  of  old,  as  Christ,  with  lilies  and  the  olive  leaf. 

Let  me,  even  at  the  risk  of  repetition,  once  more  call  attention  to  the  very  few  words  in  this 
marvelous  and  majestic  Book  of  poetry.  I  freely  confess  I  owe  more  to  this  Book  than  to  all  others 


NOTES.  327 


put  together,  and  make  no  apology  for  continually  referring  to  its  beautiful  lines.  Only  about 
seven  thousand  words !  Yet  Noah  Webster  died  with  the  boast  on  his  lips  that  he  had  made  a  dic 
tionary  of  nearly  two  hundred  thousand  words !  Then  came  the  Century  Dictionary  of  two  hun 
dred  and  fifty  thousand  words.  The  Standard  comes  next,  with  three  hundred  thousand  words! 
The  world  is  not  waiting  for  words.  The  world  is  waiting  for  truth.  And  it  don't  take  many 
words,  or  big  words,  to  tell  the  truth.  Use  little  bits  of  baby  words,  as  in  the  Bible.  And  then 
big  ideas.  My  young  followers,  learn  all  the  words  you  can,  but  use  as  few  as  possible.  Have  a 
whole  standing  army  at  your  back;  buy,  and  read,  and  learn  these  great  big  books,  every  one,  if 
you  can ;  but  I  repeat  and  repeat,  and  end  this  book  where  I  began  by  begging  you,  if  you  have  a 
victory  to  win,  to  remember  the  magic  of  the  short  Roman  sword  in  reaching  the  heart.  Remem 
ber  the  boy  David,  who  reached  the  giant's  brain  with  only  a  pebble.  Keep  the  truthful  beauty, 
the  brevity  of  the  Bible  before  you  always.  Look  for  good  in  all  things,  and  you  will  find  good  in 
all  things.  Look  for  the  tree  that  is  "  pleasant  to  the  sight,"  and  you  will  see  no  other  kind. 

A  quarter  of  a  century  ago,  before  they  pulled  down  the  cross  and  stations  from  the  arena  of 
the  Colosseum  and  buried  many  pretty  traditions  under  the  ruins,  there  lay,  half-way  from  the 
Arch  of  Titus,  a  great  shapeless  block  of  marble,  half -buried  in  the  weeds  and  grass  by  the  dusty 
path.  And  here  Michael  Angelo  was  found  in  the  twilight,  leaning  on  this  marble  and  mourn 
ing  bitterly. 

"  And  what  means  this?  Michael  Angelo,  alone  and  in  tears,  and  yet  all  the  world  yours  to 
be  had  for  the  asking  I  Pray  why  is  this,  Michael  Angelo?  " 

"Oh,  my  sweet  friends,  as  I  was  passing  by,  I  saw  such  a  vision  —  such  a  divinely  beautiful 
form,  hidden  in  this  dusty  and  shapeless  block  of  marble  —  that  I  needs  must  weep  because  I  am 
no  longer  young  and  strong  to  take  my  chisel  and  reveal  that  matchless  beauty  to  man  1 " 

Whose  fault  is  it  that  we,  too,  do  not  see  the  beautiful  form  in  the  shapeless  block  ?  Who  is 
to  blame  that  we,  too,  do  not  at  least  see  "every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the  sight?  "  There  is  not 
a  block  or  a  rock  by  the  roadside  but  holds  the  image  of  an  angel. 

The  happiest  and  the  best  people  I  ever  found  are  the  humble  wood-carvers  high  up  in  the 
northern  Alps.  They  carve  images  of  Jesus  and  the  Virgin  for  the  poorer  churches,  and,  like 
Michael  Angelo,  they  see  forms  of  beauty  in  every  block.  And  how  many  great  men  have  de 
scended  from  these  bleak  passes  to  take  part  in  the  story  of  the  world  I  They  love  all  beauty ;  all. 
When  the  first-born,  or  the  elder  son,  comes  of  age  and  goes  forth,  as  is  the  custom,  to  battle  with 
the  world  and  better  the  fortunes  of  loved  ones  left  behind,  the  mother  pulls  a  flower,  a  leaf,  a 
blade  of  grass,  as  she  goes  with  the  others  down  the  rough  field  to  the  gate,  and  she  places  this 
between  the  lids  of  the  little  Book  quietly,  tenderly.  Not  a  word  is  said  as  she  hands  him  his 
holy  equipments  for  the  fight  of  life  before  him;  but  he  understands.  Another  time,  under  other 
skies,  he  will  open  the  Book,  will  read  some  sweet  meaning,  long  and  tender  lesson  from  the 
flower,  leaf,  or  grass  blade  therein,  and  be  the  better,  braver,  for  this  simple  bit  from  the  book 
of  nature.  It  is  mother's  flower,  leaf,  or  blade  of  grass,  and  wherever  that  meets  his  vision  as  he 
travels  the  wilds  of  Australia  or  the  corn-fields  of  America,  his  heart  will  beat  high,  and  he  will 
not  be  lonely  then.  He  will  hear  the  birds,  as  at  home ;  he  will  smell  the  sweet,  moist  mosses  of 
his  mountain  home;  he  will  see  goodness,  glory,  beauty,  in  "every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the 
sight."  His  heart  is  good.  He  has  learned  to  love  the  beautiful,  to  look  for  the  beautiful  in  all 
things,  and  so  will  he  find  the  beautiful  in  all  things  to  the  end. 

Let  us  remember  always  that  man  is  not  wicked,  but  weak,  ignorant— piteously  weak  in  his 
ignorance.  But  let  us  be  patient  with  him.  The  best  of  us  have  blemishes,  weak  spots  here  and 
there,  now  and  then.  There  are  spots  even  in  the  sun.  There  is  also  an  infinity  of  light.  God 
made  the  spots,  and  He  will  look  to  the  spots.  Let  us  concern  ourselves  with  the  light. 

And  ever  and  ever  His  boundless  blue, 
And  ever  and  ever  His  green,  green  sod. 
And  ever  and  ever  between  the  two 
Walk  the  wonderful  winds  of  God. 


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